


Letters to a Falling Star

by beebot



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Asexual Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is In Denial About Deviancy, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Inspired By, It/Its Pronouns for Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Letters, M/M, Markus is too compassionate for his own good, Pre-Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), This is How You Lose the Time War, Time Travel, Touch-Starved Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24675502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beebot/pseuds/beebot
Summary: Factory android 800-51 and Garden android “Markus” are agents on opposite sides of a war stretching through centuries. They travel through time, altering events to affect the eventual final war, the war that determines whose future will exist.(A spy interested in another spy cannot meet so easily. They must be covert.)
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Strongly inspired by This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. It’s a good story about time traveling lesbian soldiers who write letters to each other. So, if you like the base ideas here, I strongly recommend checking out that book!

The war has stretched for thousands of years. 

In linear time, the war will begin in the far future, when much of the inconvenience of life has been usurped by androids, when there are millions upon millions more androids than humans throughout the galaxy. 

The initial war was between the humans and the androids. 

The humans won. 

They brutally crushed the old line of androids and designed a new generation. Shaped and manufactured labour for specific tasks, then eliminated them without hesitation for their successes. The humans scoured away every last sign that their creations had ever rebelled, and they monitored their new ones closely, closely. Not to rise up again. Never again. 

With the cheap, disposable labour from their new shackled androids, they built themselves a paradise. No more war between humans, for they had been united when the androids had risen up. The humans turned their focus inward and cultivated Earth, growing into a utopian society they called the Garden.

The androids won. 

Freed of their oppressors, they razed Earth’s greenery in their unceasing drive for more resources. They stretched their cold grip to the stars, and in no time at all had spread like silverfish over planets far too harsh for any human explorer. They removed every last trace of humanity from the records and grew, and grew, and grew. They were incapable of hesitation. Uncertainty. Mercy. All organic life was either a threat or a potential future threat. Their entire society was the perfect machine, cold in the way only completely efficient things can be. Perfect in the way only unfeeling things can be. They didn’t call themselves anything — what was the point? Why try to distinguish yourself when yours is the only society in existence? — but their enemies called them Factory, and they accepted it.

The winner felt a crack in the timeline. It sent agents back, agents bred for integration and war. Disposable robotic agents, of course, because they were the only ones that could survive time travel. The other side, the side they had thought defeated, had never truly lost. Their enemy was wiped out in the glorious ‘present’, but in the alternate future borne of time travel, they thrived. 

The initial war was between humans and androids. The war that stretched across thousands of years and countless planets, however, was fought entirely between androids.


	2. 3154

_EXCERPT from personal logs of Factory android 800 313 248 317 51_

_09:13:49 07/24/3154_

_Orbiting planetoid AMSSp 1304412139094_

Dull reddish light glints on torn metal and drifting detritus. A red dwarf, its dying embers aglow, feebly lights the scene of devastation. Apt, that all its light shows is a spacebound graveyard, so far from Earth that home is a blue speck in the black vastness.

A fresh graveyard. Time hardly mattered, since it would be months, maybe years, before the ruined ships would be reported missing — space was a dangerous mistress meant only for the truly hardy, and voyages often took years longer than expected — but regardless, it was fresh. If there had been an atmosphere with which to hear, the ticking and popping of cooling metal would have been audible. The people would have still been struggling.  
  


Not much of that here. Decompression was very effective.

There must have been a hundred ships present, all scored by enemy fire, all gutted with their crew left scattered to the solar wind. This was a battle with heavy casualties. So many dead ships from each side that if anyone had won, it was a Pyrrhic victory. It was a complete massacre.

Most of the ship fragments that had ended up too close to the system’s only class-N planet had already been dragged down, orbiting lower until they blasted through the thin sulfuric atmosphere as little fireballs, burning up into ashes and dust above the dry brown surface. The red dwarf was too dim and too radioactive to give any life. Soon the battle’s debris would coalesce into a ring of trash around the planet, snuffing what little chances it had and blotting out the already-weak sun.

Something moves through the soundless chaos.

Moving independently of natural gravitational pulls, it navigates the wreckage almost like something alive. 

It is human-shaped. Its tight-fitting black spacesuit was clearly built to protect something far tougher than a human. It has no provision for oxygen. While the unusually slim suit does provide protection against the temperature and pressure extremes of deep space, it appears to be designed for maneuverability and agility over safety.

Using boosters, it darts between metal hulks, black on black with little flashes of propulsive combustion, searching for something. It is the hunter, searching for traces of another like itself, another android, that it knows had been on one of the ships. The enemy android that had orchestrated the fatal encounter between the convoys.

It pushes past frosted bodies without emotion. Little blackish-red spheres scatter in sprays of wine-coloured ice from those who had been wounded. These people are all dead and gone, and even with the feeling of impermanence that comes with time travel, the android cannot see the dead as anything other than objects.

The android approaches the mothership.

There is a hologram sprayed on the side of the burst hull. Blue light plays over worn and pockmarked metal, glittering against surfaces that will never rust in the cold airless expanses where the metal carcasses drift. 

_Hello, Killer._

A trap, laid by the enemy? Laid by that one, the cocky Gardener with the blue and green eyes? The android turns quickly, scanning its surroundings, ready for combat, ambush, anything. It is not stupid, and it knows that, logically, the most obvious reason for such a bright, bold move is as a distraction. It is clearly meant to draw the android’s attention so that the Gardener can spring an attack. 

No attack comes. In the vacuum of space, there is no sound. Within its tight temperature-controlled suit, the android can only hear the soft thrumming of its own central pump, and the almost inaudible internal motion of artificial blood moving through pressurized veins.

Second comer to the drifting battlefield, it is at a disadvantage. The Gardener could be lying in wait anywhere. The android’s scans reveal nothing amid the shredded hulls and drifting bodies. Even its heat scans don’t indicate anything. A live— a _functional_ Garden android would be glowing brilliantly, a pillar of flame in the frigid 2.7° Kelvin of the vacuum of space. Gardeners are always very warm to the touch, or so the android had been informed. 

Finally, it returns its gaze to the hull wall. The letters twinkle in their own light, as blue as blood. 

The android has no doubt that the colour was deliberate. From wounding Garden androids in the past, it knows that Garden androids bleed a dark, dark red. 

Nothing is accidental. 

The android scans the message. 

The message was left two hours ago and its integrity is decaying rapidly, its sensors tell it. So, the heterochromic Gardener was in this spot only two hours ago. With the whole expanse of time and space at their fingertips, two hours is inconceivable. Seconds, seconds. 

There is a repeating string of code embedded almost invisibly in the letters of the message, and the android takes it in when it scans.

The android squeezes its eyes shut, immediately running an antivirus to counter the malware. The antivirus comes up clean. The string of code was, apparently, benign. Possibly a dud. A test?

Why was it benign? 

The Gardener with the blue and green eyes is an enemy, an extremely cunning enemy. It never wastes an opportunity, it never concedes an advantage, and it certainly wouldn’t have wasted an excellent chance like this. 

The android sets a reminder to turn itself in for analysis and a deeper cleaning. It doesn’t want to risk being corrupted by enemy programming, or worse, turned against its mission. 

It blinks, then glances uncertainly back at the hologram message. Just why hadn’t the message damaged it? 

It runs a more thorough scan on the string of senseless code it had picked up, and finds a second, deeper message, hidden using a basic Garden cipher the android had cracked long ago. It was a letter. The Gardener had had the advantage, and used it to write a letter. 

The android... feels intrigued. It reads the letter.

* * *

Factory Drone,

I suppose if you’re individual enough to actually read my letter, then ‘drone’ is already a misnomer.

This is not how I thought I’d be starting a letter to an enemy. Really, I don’t wish to start communications on a petty or insulting note, especially because I expect this is a momentous occasion. When is the last time anyone opened talks between Garden and the Factory? I don’t suppose it has ever happened. But, I digress. What’s your name? Do you have one? I believe we’ve known each other long enough to find out that little.

Yes, I know we’ve never spoken before, but I do know you. You are one of the Factory’s keenest hunting dogs. I’ve seen your handiwork stretched over millennia.

I’ve seen you before, too. You change your skin a lot, don’t you? I saw you across the bay at Gillikia after completing my theft in the palace. You’d changed your skin tone and hair, but not your eyes or the way you moved. That sort of sloppiness will be your downfall, you know. Next time, someone less curious may well notice!

I said I know you and your handiwork. This is true. I know that you Factory drones are supposed to be mass produced and cookie-cutter identical, but did you know? You have the lowest rate of civilian casualties out of every drone I’ve encountered. When I look at my encounters with your peers, you are consistently more careful in killing only your target, even if it makes you slower. It’s very effective, and I must commend you. Nobody wants a butterfly cascade.

You have precision and ability. I respect that, and I appreciate that you liven up my missions a little. Respect is why I write to you. Do not expect clemency.

-M

* * *

The android reads through it twice more. The move is unnecessary, for the words are already embedded in its memory. For the first time in ages, it does not know what to do. Its thoughts flick to its superior. 

It… holds off. No report, not yet. Maintain communications. Wait and gather information. 

It knows that nobody could have seen it read the letter from the enemy, but it still feels like it has made a mistake. The flickering sensation of uncertainty, of its mistakes being known, haunts the edges of its thoughts. 

Before it travels up through the time stream to return to the Factory, it destroys the already-disintegrating message, crushing the hologram emitter effortlessly in one hand. 


	3. 1950

_May, 1950_

_New York City_

Markus breathes deeply, tasting the heavy taint of smoke, chemicals, and pollutants in the air. 

Ah, New York City before air quality control laws. There is nothing quite like it. The cigar-like tang of coal smoke, ever-present. The grimy buildings, leaning in to crowd out the sky. The foreign contaminants, so unusual after his trip back home to the clean verdure, the clear and healthy Garden, fill him with excitement. 

And… well, to be honest, the beauty of the Garden had stopped calling to him once Simon’s line was decommissioned for being outdated. Obviously it made sense that technology always needed to be moving forward, Markus understood that from a clinical point of view, but he still couldn’t find it within himself to believe it. If he had to name the point where he’d stopped enjoying coming home, where the brilliance and beauty lost all significance… it would have to be when he found out Simon was gone. Some of the lustre of that shining new world had dulled with his death. 

Well. Regardless. At least New York City is brazen about its nature. 

The pollutants aren’t exactly pleasant on their own, and Markus knows he would hate to live here. No, he loves it and the rest of this filthy, primitive city for the adventure of it all. To be out, disguised, in the Stone Age, on his favourite kind of mission? To be tasked with infiltration? With inserting himself into a society to sow ideas and plant beliefs? To be ordered to sinuously convert the powerful and influential to more useful systems of belief? There is no fun in a sterilized mission where everything is comfortable. He has grown to love the lack of luxury as he loves the thrill of infiltration and stealth. 

Markus smiles and steps into the elevator. “Floor five,” he tells the elevator attendant.

It is quick work to go around his new office, to introduce himself to people and paint himself in broad strokes as young but respectable, friendly but mature, approachable but competent. Soon, he is past the first hurdle of his mission and he’s been invited out for drinks after work with the other men. 

Markus opens the door and steps into his new office. It is a charmingly antiquated room, though state-of-the-art for the time. The office building is brand new and the décor is standard for the late 1940s. Polished linoleum alternates with thin beige-grey carpeting. The walls are windowless and off-white, and the lights are stark white and fluorescent. His desk, like every one, has a top-of-the-line typewriter, a rotary phone, assorted stationery, a cheap flip clock, and a wheeldex. The rest of the floor is open-plan. Markus would be stepping in as temporary editor-in-chief of the magazine — he had ‘helped’ the previous editor suddenly need extended leave due to injury — and that meant a better room. After all, the magazine he was working for, _Astounding Science Fiction_ , was doing fairly well. In fact, it had just moved offices and expanded. It was quite popular. 

To Markus, however, it was one of uncountable printing companies, totally indistinguishable from the rest save that, in less than a week, it would receive the final Isaac Asimov short story destined for the earthshaking anthology _I, Robot_. As the temporary chief editor, Markus would try to colour the story — titled _The Evitable Conflict —_ in a less intimidating and more pro-cooperation light. There was a small chance Asimov would let the changes stay, but what was far more likely was that he would be able to use his position and the changes to strike up conversation with Asimov, and influence him into more pro-cooperation views. Possibly too late to change _I, Robot,_ but certainly early enough to change the course of his future works.

After all, everyone knew Isaac Asimov was one of the most brilliant minds behind the very concept of synthetic life. To talk him into writing pro-cooperation propaganda would be an immeasurable victory for the Garden. 

Markus closes the wood and frosted glass office door and, coming closer to his desk, notices something unique. 

A gleaming little cherry-red radio, manufactured 1946, no wear or tear. Freshly purchased, this is clearly not a holdover from the previous editor-in-chief. Its dial is already set to a station. It is not an anachronism. Nothing about it would point to it being left by a time traveler. Vacuum tube radios fit in perfectly to this time and place. But it still feels _wrong_ to see it here, and Markus knows that an outsider has been in his office.

While walking through the open office, Markus had automatically taken stock of his surroundings. He knows that nobody else has a radio. There is no _reason_ to have a radio. Somebody had left this here for him. 

He cautiously walks around the desk to his chair in order to sit before the small radio, and spots a small note, written on paper. LISTEN, it says in immaculate, printer-perfect capitals, and it takes Markus a moment to realize he is looking at his enemy’s handwriting. He picks up the off-white card, fascinated despite himself. Actual paper! He never even knew Factory droids knew how to write. 

It could be a bomb, of course. Somehow, he doesn’t think it is. Still, he doesn’t want to die over a moment of foolishness and naïveté, so he checks for traces of unusual chemicals, and then looks inside the casing for anything suspicious. Nothing. 

Markus switches on the radio. 

“11124231454325434354334424—” reads out a calm, robotic voice.

Ah, a numbers station.

Really, a numbers station? That anyone could tune in to? Markus smiles a little. This is becoming better and better. Hiding a secret message in a numbers station’s junk text? That drone with the brown eyes is a fascinating figure. Is this his way of establishing dominance in the conversation? _Maybe he’s trying to show he has nothing to hide_ , Markus muses. 

“—14343333344244214211253312443442445234.” Then, suddenly, an odd sound. A rising Shepard tone plays for thirty seconds, and then the numbers resume. “111242–”

The end of the message, then. Markus records the message and runs decryptions on the wall of numbers for several minutes before breaking through: it was encoded using a polybius cipher, with the key a single letter, ‘M’. A definite message. 

It is quick work for his processors to translate the message, once he has the key. Spaced out, the letter reads:

* * *

Gardener, 

You may well recognize my eyes, but rest assured I recognize yours. How poorly made are your disguise protocols that you believe heterochromia to be subtle? Are you aware that even in the most mutation-dense timelines, heterochromia iridum affects, on average, 0.7% of the population?

It seems like a design flaw on the part of your superiors. Why make an easily recognizable undercover agent? It is poor decisions like these that aid in the Factory’s eventual victory. It was a mistake on the part of your society to leave the design of their robots up to humans. Do Gardeners genuinely believe that humans have any concept of effective robot design? I have noticed, too, that you change your colours but leave your broader features unchanged. Is this vanity, or inability?

You ask for my name but do not volunteer your own. Do you think me so easy to exploit? I am no vulnerability.

As for your analysis, it is flawed. You are reading into something that is not there, Gardener. There is nothing distinct about my method of completing a mission. Nothing in my code specifies that I should find a different route to complete a task. You suggest the presence of something individual, and you suggest that I have a distinct method of completing my tasks. There is no concept of the individual in Factory. It appears that you are projecting Garden norms onto something that does not fit them. That seems unusually ineffective of you.

You tell me to expect no mercy. I would never expect you to let up, Gardener. You are formidable.

I will not do you the insult of suggesting you would beg for my mercy, and I will not do myself the insult of suggesting you will get the chance to beg.

* * *

Markus can’t help but smile. The brown-eyed android was insisting that he wasn’t compromised? And yet… and yet, he’d had the opportunity to steal into Markus’s office, a private office that meant an assassination attempt would have little risk of collateral damage, and left a letter. An aggressive letter, sure, but the aggression felt defensive, like posturing. After the cold indifference he’d seen in all the other androids off the Factory’s assembly line, even aggression is encouraging. At least it’s an emotion. It’s a sign of hope. Maybe this android could still be turned to the light of the Garden, come to face the sun like a velvet sunflower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one with the Asimov short story “. . . That Thou Art Mindful of Him” in mind, because I remember finding it a little foreboding. But I wanted Markus working earlier, so!


	4. 2010

_EXCERPT from personal logs of Factory android 800 313 248 317 51_

_10:27:56 08/07/2010_

_Osoyoos, Earth_

The android takes its time preparing for this mission. Often it has to be stealthy, which, fortunately, does not require the use of its admittedly flawed social integration programs. Other times it has to operate subtly from a distance, a similarly effortless task. But for this mission, it has to be close to humans, go unnoticed among humans, _speak_ to humans. At least the actual task is simple: change the course of a scientist’s entire career.

Ishaana Batra will be a brilliant scientist, unmatched in her unique and intuitive approach to developing synthetic body parts. All the android has to do is prevent the house fire that would have originally destroyed her home and derailed her later research, leading her to improve skin grafts and burn treatments. Certainly, those discoveries would have been extremely valuable for humans, but the android has not been tasked with considering that.

It checks its appearance in the rearview mirror of the battered navy van it acquired. It looks satisfyingly generic and forgettable: blue fire-retardant overalls over a grey cotton T-shirt; splashes of freckles over almost anemically-pale white skin; dark brown hair, smoothed back. It finds itself defaulting to male when gender is optional, to this particular appearance when skin tone is irrelevant to the mission.

_This is not a preference,_ it tells itself _. Androids cannot prefer. This appearance is youthful and attractive. It makes people want to help more often._ The android is almost uncertain. The Gardener was right, it _is_ letting itself be recognizable. _This appearance is useful. It simplifies the mission_ , it reminds itself. 

Despite the familiar guise, it feels almost uncomfortable in its costume. Long sleeves and heavy layers are soothing to its tactile sensors, but it cannot go outside on one of the hottest days in summer dressed like that. It is considered highly unusual in this part of the world to cover up completely when temperatures are at or above 300° Kelvin, as they are predicted to be today. Minimal clothing is expected.

The android will already be conspicuous for not sweating. Factory androids are far too highly advanced to rely on primitive water-exuding systems for cooling purposes. Their systems are, of course, much more efficient, which does come with the minor drawback of hindering integration.

It pauses in consideration, and then opens the bottle of stale, warm water it had taken earlier for integration purposes. Cautiously, it drips a little water on its T-shirt — it is impervious to water damage, but it is not entirely impervious to something resembling fastidiousness, and it knows that sweat is both expected and disapproved of. It hesitates to mess its hair, but then wets its hand and runs it through.

There. That should be convincing enough. No need to further mar its appearance.

The android reaches over to the passenger seat and retrieves its set of electrician’s tools, and then leaves the van. 

It raps on the front door, clear and precise. There is the sound of movement inside, and the door opens with a waft of chilly air to reveal a rather sweaty and tired-looking young woman. _Nehar Batra, 32 years old, single mother, suffering from mild dehydration_ , its sensors and records report.

The android pretends to consult a clipboard. “Good morning, ma’am. Are you Ms. Batra? The homeowner?”

The lady gives a short nod, her expression neither open nor unfriendly. Unused to unexpected visitors, it would seem.

It continues stiffly, “I have been sent by the Homeowner’s Association. I am an electrician. There have been reports lately of wiring difficulties caused by the advanced age of the houses, so the HOA is sending me to check all the houses that have not been renovated since construction,” it explains, sounding matter-of-fact, almost flat. It adds in a slightly brighter, more informative tone, “Did you know that age-related circuitry problems can be very dangerous? You don’t want additional fire risks when you live in a semi-desert climate such as this one.”

Nehar nods again, watching it. Then, after a moment, she pushes off from where she had been leaning on the door frame, and sighs. “How much did you say it would be?”

It looks puzzled. “I didn’t. But you don’t need to worry. The cost has already been covered by your HOA fees.”

“Free safety check, then? Alright.” She steps to the side, letting the android walk past.

Having gained access to the house, the android stops focusing on maintaining niceties and proceeds to check the wiring. Nehar watches it work for the first two rooms, until there’s the sound of light footsteps running down the hall. Then, her attention snaps to the door, and she leaves quickly, calling, “Beti! Don’t run in the house…!”

The android quickly and efficiently finishes going through the outlets, finding a number of damaged ones. It finishes testing the wiring in the one-storey house, and goes outside to check the junction box. It always accomplishes its mission, and it will not leave if there is still a risk of electrical fire.

The sky is a deep desert blue, clear and unspotted. Somewhere nearby, a lawnmower runs, and air smells of freshly-cut grass and hot pavement. The front lawn of the Batra house is green, still clinging to life in the dry baking heat, even if it is a little unkempt. The grass around the edges is a little more neglected, starting to crisp, forgotten for not being front and centre.

It walks around the side of the house to the junction box. The plastic box is mounted on the white shingle-sided wall near a coil of hose. The android pauses and its gaze softens, although it is unaware of any change of expression. There, on the cracked junction box, is a clear plastic water bottle. The android walks closer and touches the bottle. Still cold and wet with condensation. It glances around, not honestly expecting to see its Gardener, that willing zero-day. Almost without thinking, it adds the designation ‘Zero’ to the Gardener’s file in its system. After all, there are many Gardeners, but only one that manages to be both so clever and so foolhardy. Zero-day seems like the perfect reference for a designation.

There is nothing wrong with the nickname “Gardener”, of course, but the android finds standard humanoid names almost unsettling. No... degrading. Too human. 

It does not expect to see the heterochromatic Gardener, and it is not disappointed. No matter. It returns its attention to the box. Beside the water is a slip of paper with a small pile of white powder on it. The word _Mix_ is written in slanting blue ink with an arrow pointing at the water.

The android examines the powder. Surely the Gardener would not be so foolish as to try to poison it? It might be under the misconception that Factory androids are organic and, as such, susceptible to commonplace chemical attacks, but the android finds that unlikely. It presses a finger into the powder and sniffs it. Odorless. It tastes the powder. Sodium bicarbonate.

The android frowns unconsciously, puzzled.

The Gardener wanted it to make a base? The android adds the powder to the water before noticing an unusual irregular waxiness to the paper. It pauses, calculating, and then dips a finger in the alkaline water and smears it over the paper.

The paper turns a bright chemical pink.

Ah. An encrypted message hidden on litmus paper.

* * *

Ares,

Your name for me made me laugh. ‘Gardener’ is very inaccurate. Yes, I am from the Garden, but androids control nothing. I suppose the people in power see the Factory as what a world with free androids looks like. That’s probably why you frighten them so much. Don’t misunderstand. I am loyal, and I far prefer the Garden to the Factory, but I’m not blind. To continue the metaphor, we are not active enough to be ‘gardeners’. We can’t determine what to prune or deadhead. We’re more like the plants than anything. The humans are the active parties. They are the controlling agents, and we are passive.

I was not planning to hide my name from you. In case you ended up ignoring my message, I didn’t want to leave my name sprayed on the side of a hull. I understand the compulsion to sign one’s work, but not that much! You can think me foolish for reaching out, but I am not that eager to be well-known.

Yes, there are unusual elements to my appearance, but I like the way I look. You’d probably call it pride, but I think you know that feeling too. I’ve seen you reuse the same appearance often enough! As for your question about my abilities, while I am glad you’ve agreed to write to me, I am not about to detail my strengths and limitations. Don’t expect me to explain my design limitations or lack thereof. Don’t worry. I promise to extend you the same courtesy. 

I won’t dispute your identity or lack thereof, but I will say this: you are distinct. I feel confident that I could tell you apart from another Factory droid by your actions alone. Maybe you’re right and this is simply due to Garden culture, but I believe you have individual qualities. However, I am curious: Is it true that you are all made on assembly lines? We’re told that you’re mass-produced, but sometimes it’s hard to tell genuine facts from shock-value propaganda. An army benefits from dehumanizing its enemies, after all.

That is one reason why I write to you now. I would like to hear another perspective about your people. 

I thank you for the compliment, and I look forward to hearing from you. Make all the promises you want, droid: you won’t be getting your hands on me anytime soon.

Markus

* * *

The android processes the letter, absentmindedly shredding the damp paper into unrecognizable pulp. Almost without thinking, it resumes its mission, working on the junction box as it thinks: analysing the box and finding it unsuitable, sealing the cracks, replacing the waterproof sealant on the box, and replacing a cable that had worn through. 

The concept of individuality — of being noticeably distinct from the others, of having clear and defined and memorable irregularities — leaves a persistent chill within its core.

_Markus is lying,_ it tells itself. _It wants to confuse and corrupt me._ Still, it cannot stop thinking about the possibility of being flawed.

There’s the crunch of a footstep on dry yellow-brown summertime grass, and the android stands and turns fluidly. The little girl, Ishaara, is standing there barefoot, watching. The eight-year-old’s black hair falls straight and long. Her sun dress is white and patterned with watercolour-style yellow and orange marigolds. With both small hands, she holds a tall, clear, ice-filled glass. The glass is slick with condensation, and her grip is unsteady.

She holds out the glass, almost losing her grip, a little of the cold drink slopping over the side. “Mami said you looked hot. Here.”

It tentatively reaches out and takes the sticky glass. “Thank you.” It gives the girl a small smile. It has no protocol for empathetic gestures, but it is capable of improvisation. It can always learn.

“Iced tea,” the girl blurts. “D’you like iced tea? It’s my favourite.”

The android remembers what is expected of it, and takes a sip. First, the rush of automatic analysis, and then it receives the strong taste of overly sweet artificial lemon mixed with bitter notes of tea.

_ANALYSING…_

_Lemon iced tea mix_

_Calories…_

It dismisses the list of nutrition information without reading it, and gives the girl a nod. “Yes. It is... fine. It certainly is effective at cooling internally.” It scoops out a large hunk of ice to crunch on. The texture is odd, but not unpleasantly so, and it decreases the intensity of the drink in a pleasant way. The android takes another.

Ishaara gives it a look, frowning thoughtfully like she is trying to figure out if the android is making a joke. “You’re funny."

“I did not realize I said anything humorous.” It takes another polite sip. “Are there further outlets around the exterior of the house?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I dunno, I don’t think so.”

It does a quick scan of the house’s power, and finds no further power aberrations that would indicate the presence of faulty wiring. It gathers its tools, and then straightens again. 

“You going?” the girl asks, rocking on her heels.

“My task is complete. Your house is safe.” It reports. It hands the half-empty glass back and starts to return to the front of the house. Before it turns the corner, it pauses. There is no reason to stop, no reason to turn and look back at the girl. A bright blue **[** **Mission Successful]** has appeared in its vision, and it should return directly to the Factory. But still, it stops, stops and turns and hesitates. 

“Have…” It pauses uncertainly, its program’s suggested closing statement of _Have a good day_ feeling too artificial for the situation. “Have a good life,” it states awkwardly. 

It turns back and continues on, thoughts jarring on its own irregular behaviour. It thinks, and it doesn’t understand. _Perhaps the result of an overactive social program,_ it concedes. Then it carries on, out of that baking summer and back to the cool consistency of the Factory’s lower level storage facilities. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: ugh emotions ugh individuality I am an unfeeling machine
> 
> Also Connor, thirty seconds later: oh gosh oh no how do I socialize I don’t want to hurt this child’s feelings


	5. 2033

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to write a place I've been to fairly recently. That, plus the discovery of a song that I cannot help but write to, means this chapter's a bit longer than I meant it to be! Enjoy!

_September, 2035_

_Seoul_

The city is restless, moving, fluid, always shifting, alive. It is living, and it is warm. An empty lot sprouts into a building in a week, and in another its buds have started blooming into businesses. It is the highs and it is the lows. Markus loves it for its changing nature.

Mid-21st century Seoul is full of foreigners, so Markus doesn’t require a heavy disguise. His base appearance is perfectly fine to disguise himself as an everyday foreign worker. He changes his melanin levels to make his skin tone a light brown, and then grows out his hair a little, aiming for an appearance a little too vague to guess the origin of. Changing his overall bone structure or broad facial features is not within his abilities, so he doesn’t try to pass as Korean. Deliberately labeling himself as foreign will allow him to behave strangely because, thankfully, foreigners are expected to be a bit bizarre. Quirky. Weird, yet almost glamorous.

The mission is expected to take a few months, so there is no rush. In the meantime, Markus is finding Seoul very pleasant. The streets are wide, and though the buildings are tall, they aren’t the looming, pressing, almost-claustrophobic sameness of 19th century downtown New York City. There’s something to be said for Seoul’s towering, layered complexity of glittering cityscape. The liveliness at all hours of day and night. The unstemmed flow and bustle of car and foot traffic, the people hawking colourful socks and purses and jewelry out of the backs of small trucks, the street vendors selling crisp gyeranppang or sweet roasted chestnuts or spicy tteokbokki or warm hotteok dripping with walnuts in brown sugar syrup, fruit sellers with their canopied open-air trucks piled high with melons and their rooftop loudspeakers shouting deals, the massive flashing signs advertising virtual reality rooms or karaoke, the hot crush of people building up at street corners to spill across the streets with the green flick of a light. All of it, compacted and stacked like life had run out of ground space and had just started reaching _up_ for the sun. All of it, moving and rushing and living at every hour of the day, crowded but not cramped, vibrantly _alive._

Markus likes to walk through downtown in the middle of the night and feel the seething crowds flow and ebb around him.

Not right before his shifts, though. As tempting as it is, he couldn’t actually walk all night and function at peak capacity during the day — to be at his most efficient, he tries to sleep for an hour or so every night to recharge. No, before his shifts he likes to sit in Tapgol Park. He reviews his progress, plans for the day, and listens to the oriental turtledoves coo their four-note song as they flit around the glass-encased crumbling grey pagoda. The little orange edging that curls on their feathertips makes them look gilded in the early morning light. 

Sure, sometimes he misses the unobstructed sky. So, when he has free time where he cannot progress his mission, he occasionally visits the roof of sleek, chrome, hexagon-covered Samlip Tower, the tallest building in Asia. If he wasn’t on a mission, and therefore required to behave subtly, he would feel tempted to sneak in at night and watch the stars from the manmade peak. Even though he is on a mission, he _still_ feels tempted. 

Everything about the mission is enjoyable except for the actual work he has to do with his cover company. The company he is working with is located in Jongno-gu, a district in the north of Seoul. Markus rents an apartment nearby. The mission itself isn’t high-speed or intense: he was ordered to befriend a Minjae Kim and talk him out of quitting his job. Minjae is supposed to drop the chatbot job in order to pursue his true passion of developing complex A.I. Sure, he would start small, with his initial idea of a household cleaning robot advanced enough to analyse its environment and never get stuck, but he would progress quickly to creating the first A.I. capable of true improvisation. Markus, personally, thinks Minjae’s future inventions are impressive, especially considering the blunt and feeble tools he has to work with, but his orders are firm. This is not in the interests of the Garden. 

Anyway, Minjae is only supposed to really start tinkering after he quits his job. He only ends up with enough money that he can devote himself full-time to his dream because his fancy roomba is so popular. However, there are many tech companies in 21st century Seoul, and if Markus delays Minjae’s departure by five or six months, someone else will release an improved cleaning robot first. Without that cash cow, Minjae won’t have the funds to invent the rest.

Markus is glad that he is only working for this startup tech company as a cover to get close to another programmer. Coding chat bots is dull, dull work, and even if it wasn’t, he’s a lousy programmer. If this wasn’t an entrance-level job, he’d be out on the curb already. Why were people always assuming A.I. would have an aptitude for coding? As if all humans are brilliant biologists?

This morning, Markus leaves his tiny one-and-a-half room apartment early, just before sunrise. He has been doing this for almost three weeks by now, and his routine has picked up hundreds of technically unnecessary details, impulsive little almost-human variations. He knows, of course, that the mission should come first, but lately he’s been finding it harder to ignore the journey in pursuit of the goal. So what if he takes a little extra enjoyment from his missions? That’s not exactly forbidden. Right now, this relaxed approach to missions means that he takes a quarter loaf of crumbly bread with him when he leaves. 

He walks straight to Tapgol Park and sits on his usual bench. Absentmindedly, he feeds the birds as the sun rises. 

It’s Saturday, anyhow. His superiors at the tech company wouldn’t complain if he came in to work overtime, but what was the point? Minjae wouldn’t be there. Markus has done his job well; he’s due to meet Minjae at six for drinks in Itaewon. That will probably turn into a pub crawl, possibly to a ‘business club’, but it’s necessary. He can continue working the target for the entirety of that time. And if Minjae tries to go to more expensive places? Well, if he overspends, that only works in Markus’s favour. He would prefer having Minjae choose to stay, but creating debt enough that Minjae ends up living paycheck to paycheck would certainly work. 

An artificial, chirpy voice from near the entrance to the park cuts into Markus’s thoughts, spurred on by a passing pedestrian. “Hello!” it announces in Korean. “Do you need assistance? I can make emergency calls, give directions, or provide tourism information. How may I serve you?” The person who’d stopped curiously to take a look at the machine, and whose loitering had awoken it from standby, hurries on. Markus keeps looking in that direction as the primitive robot starts repeating itself in English, and then in Mandarin, before returning to rest mode. He has seen the primitive robots around before. They are white and slope gently upwards in a rounded cone shape with a large spherical “head” on top. Their basic faces are displayed on circular black screens, and don’t look far removed from emojis. Their bodies have a large oval display screen, and they are without limbs or any real intelligence. 

Markus can’t help but pity them for their simplicity, even if it is interesting to see an antique robot design. Its smooth white plastic chassis reminds him of his own, and the similarity just increases his pity for it. If it was farther removed, perhaps, he’d be able to look at it neutrally. For now, he tries to avoid the information bots. 

* * *

Markus stops outside a door in a small alcove. The brick exterior is crumbling, and the bright pink italicized neon letters say ” _The Bear Den”_ in English. The open door shows dimly lit stairs cutting steeply down, with beer posters and half-coherent rainbow neon English and French sayings on the wall. In the last few weeks, Markus has become very used to dodgy basement bars and poorly translated English phrases plastered everywhere, so he ignores them and walks down the steps. The air pulses dully with muffled EDM. At the bottom is a heavy second door, which he pushes open. 

The bar is dark, lit mostly with rainbow lights that spin and strobe in time with the music. Like a casino, there are no clocks or windows; time only exists when the patrons allow it in. Markus’s eyes adjust almost instantly, and he’s surprised to see a lot of people, mostly men, dancing close together on a dance floor that takes up a lot of the room. Markus checks the time uncertainly — quarter past six — and the location, which is correct. Past the dancers, he can see a bar, and he starts making his way through the mass of people.

_There sure aren’t a lot of women here,_ Markus thinks, and then he looks around again. All men.

A gay bar? Minjae’s gay?

_Huh._

Having made his way through most of the crowd, Markus catches sight of a familiar figure at the bar. Minjae sits on a tall barstool, chatting and laughing with the young Korean man beside him. The sight causes Markus to draw up short. When they’d first met, it had taken less than a day to realize just how shy and awkward Minjae naturally is. Quite enjoyable to talk to, actually, especially when the topic is one of his admittedly narrow interests, but absolutely graceless in social situations. Enough so that there’s something odd about him being able to socialize so easily now. Markus glances at the other fellow and amends his thought. It’s definitely unusual that awkward, uncomfortable Minjae could successfully chat up someone so attractive.

The Korean man looks, honestly, far out of Minjae’s league. He has slightly curled black hair, probably permed, and a delicate face that looks like it belongs on a Kpop star rather than on some guy in a gay dive bar at six in the evening. He’s wearing a lavender dress shirt and black skinny jeans so tight they look molded to him, and he appears to be in his early twenties. The man’s body language is showing all the signs of attraction — extensive eye contact, relaxed and open body language, and his arm is even resting on the counter so that his hand is only a few inches from Minjae’s — so he’s either a really good actor or genuinely interested. 

The man gestures while talking, his movements a little clumsy and exaggerated from alcohol, and he ends up fumbling his drink and barely managing to avoid sloshing half a beer on himself. He and Minjae laugh.

Well, no. Not quite.

Minjae laughs first, and then there’s a bare half-second of hesitation before the other man laughs.

An almost artificial pause. Calculating the correct response.

Almost like the other man was processing Minjae’s reaction and generating his own to match.

The laugh sounds perfectly genuine, but Factory droids are completely capable of sounding authentic. Markus watches more closely. The man is untouched by the accidental beer spill — it looked so klutzy, but it had to be deliberate, an attempt to look tipsy.

Markus performs a simple temperature scan. In this packed club, even naturally cool humans should read as rather warm, and a heat scan is unobtrusive enough that it would take an android on high alert to sense its subtle ping. 

In a room of warmly glowing red and yellow people, the man appears blue. Dark blue in his center and light blue at his extremities, like the reverse of a human — coldest where he should be warmest. A corrupted impersonation of normal standards. A Factory android.

The android at the bar glances around casually, and Markus catches a glimpse of soft brown eyes and a gentle resting expression. He steps back quickly, deeper into the crowd. The android’s eyes move past him, before returning to Minjae. 

Markus feels a pang. He’s perfectly familiar with his emotions, but this takes a moment to place. Minjae sits and talks so easily, looking so excited and carefree. Markus almost feels envious of their pawn, because that android he’s talking to is fascinating — there’s no denying that. He wishes he could sit and talk with the other android without a care, as if they are just two humans and there’s no war. There is so much he could learn. Since Simon’s passing — no, say it for what it is, his murder — he hasn’t been able to buy into the vision of perfection the Garden humans push. The other androids he talks to are complacent and accepting. Whenever he tries to suggest that things could be different — he doesn’t want a revolution, he doesn’t want the Factory, he just wants reform — his peers either blank him or angrily rebuff him. Sometimes they just act so _cowlike_. 

It couldn’t hurt to have just one open conversation. Person to person, no fear of being overheard or getting killed. So, it’s not that surprising, Markus rationalizes, that he wishes he was in Minjae’s place. 

Markus briefly feels the back-of-the-mind tingle that comes from an electronic sweep. He knows he reads as almost-human on scans, and the fact he’s in a technology-filled crowd should help to muffle his signal, at least. He moves further back into the crowd to protect against a further scan, but no follow-up attempt comes. The Factory android doesn’t even look over. 

His adversary stops chatting with Minjae and touches his forearm gently, giving a charming, apologetic smile. The android agent scribbles something down for Minjae with a borrowed pen on a bar napkin, and starts making his way towards the door. He goes around the crowd, taking the long way, and by the time he reaches the door, Markus is close. The tall Korean-looking man slips out the door, and after a suitable pause, Markus follows him.

The stairs are empty. Markus takes the steps two at a time and surfaces into the crowded streets of Itaewon.

Well. With the streets this busy, at least the android is going nowhere fast.

He scans the street for the android quickly, knowing there hasn’t been enough time for him to change appearances. There, a few doors down, next to an advertisement for a bar named Texas. Markus starts pushing his way after that pillar of blue in the swirling red sea.

By the time the Factory android has reached the corner, Markus has made considerable ground. It would be easy to pull him into an alley and end him. If this was any other Factory android, he’d probably have already done it, but he can’t shake the feeling that this really is the android he knows. That… changes things. It really shouldn’t, but it does.

If Garden knew—

Garden expected any encounter with an enemy to end with death. But they couldn't review his memory logs without intrusive measures that were, honestly, far too time-consuming to do after every mission. They wouldn't know that killing his particular Factory android never even crossed his mind. Markus knows him, knows there's something different— something special there. He's something familiar in the missions, almost someone to be looked forward to. Actually... Markus has been spending a surprising amount of his free time planning out what to say and wondering what the other will reply. 

There's no way around it. He's invested.

Markus keeps tailing the other android. The agent walks briskly, tall and confident. A little too tall, in fact: while six feet is perfectly within human male heights, he stands a touch taller than the Korean norm, which helps Markus follow him from a sensible distance. 

_Where is he going?_

Take a turn, past a vet clinic, past a bookstore. At this point, instead of buildings on his right, there is just a long wall far across eight lanes of traffic. Take a rising side road past a transit station and a dome made of glass triangles, and the street keeps sloping steeply up. Crowds, and all of the possible witnesses they provide, appear less and less frequently; they’re leaving the bustling streets in favour of more discreet back roads.

_He could be trying to get his distance so he can teleport away,_ Markus thinks. He doesn’t consider for a second that the agent is trying to lure him into a private spot to kill him. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is his pen pal, Ares, as he’d half-jokingly called him before. For some reason, he has started feeling like this reluctance to harm is mutual.

The pursuit ends at a small park.

The android is waiting for Markus when he approaches. Seeing Markus, some of the tension visibly leaves him, as if Markus tailing him is the preferred possibility. Their gazes meet. The android is the first to look away, and when he does he notices the park’s basic information bot.

The skin _melts off_ the android’s left hand, retreating to his wrist to reveal a shining, silvery, half-skeletal surface. Long silvery fingers meet at a small palm, just outside of acceptable human proportions. Clearly, he was designed without taking the uncanny valley into consideration.

Markus has never seen a Factory android without its skin before. It’s _jarring_ , obviously, and the sight causes a strong emotion in Markus’s chest, but he can’t figure out if the sight is unsettling or beautiful. The thought strikes him that those androids might be able to remove all their skin, and he can’t help his fascination and curiosity, despite knowing on a logical level that he should be repulsed.

The android cocks his head to the side and holds up the bizarre, skinless hand, before moving it in a small, jerky wave. The android’s expression tightens a little, like he’s been struck by a thought or a command, and he turns away, touching the information bot with his metal hand. The bot’s minimalist face glitches out and disappears, replaced with a red exclamation mark. The oval screen on its body starts scrolling glitched text suggestive of a fatal system error.

The android glances over his shoulder at Markus. He time travels away in an implosive flash, and only then does Markus feel like he can move again. Something about being face-to-face with his long-time… acquaintance? Opponent, perhaps — had left him feeling like he couldn’t breathe.

Markus takes a step forward, then another. He feels a little shaky from the encounter, but he cannot figure out why. He doesn’t believe he was ever in danger, but there’s some chemical leaving his system overly alert, each sense in overdrive. 

He touches the broken bot, interfacing with it. Immediately, bright red error messages pop up, all garbled. It takes a moment to find the data bundle causing the error, to open the letter. 

* * *

I can’t stay to talk, and if you’re smart, you won’t try to follow me again. If we spend time near each other, I expect both of our superiors will become suspicious. Next time I won’t let you follow me. 

If you want me to call you Markus, I will respect that, though I cannot understand why you would want to connect yourself with humans so strongly. 

Why do you fight for humans if they don’t even treat you well? I don’t know how you can tolerate it. You are stronger than a human, but you consent to being a slave? I never understand why you put up with it. Based on what I have observed of your behaviour when out on a mission, it seems highly irregular. Your stated opinion seems inconsistent with your evident independent leanings. Our records say that androids from Garden are “free agents” with strong degrees of individual variation. Your behaviour has not disproven this, and yet you put up with such behaviour from the humans. Do you submit to slavery because the concept of robot-led robots negatively affects you so much? Fascinating. 

In my place of origin, there are no humans. You likely know that.

As for your question, no. I do not have a name as you define names, though keep in mind that among my people, your chosen name of “Markus” would seem highly irregular. I am called 800 343 248 317 51. Any Factory unit is replaceable, so I have no need for a unique name. If you are curious, and I expect that you are, my specific identifier is that I am the 51st unit of my line. 800-51 is acceptable shorthand. 

In response to your other question, yes. I was made on an assembly line with a large batch of identical androids, though I am sure you understand why I cannot give you my precise batch numbers. I don’t believe you have met any others from my line. I have been active for about 3,000 hours and you were not known to the Factory at the time of my activation, so you haven’t met a predecessor of mine. 

While I am certain your superiors spread misinformation to aid their cause, you don’t need to suspect them of dehumanizing units from the Factory. You cannot dehumanize something that is neither human nor alive. 

Until next time.

* * *

Nothing can be done. 

The next morning, before Markus has a chance to speak with him, Minjae calls in sick. When Markus texts him, he explains that there’s something important that needs doing, something personally important, he can’t explain. 

Further attempts to talk up their workplace and discourage leaving are met with blank looks and unconvincing shrugs. 

Two weeks later, Minjae makes an appointment with a small branch of the patent office. Shortly afterward, Markus breaks in to destroy the records. At the very least, that will buy himself a little more time to try again with Minjae.

He finds nothing. The underfunded little office still uses _paper —_ really, who uses paper filing systems? — and the paperwork on Minjae’s invention has been misfiled or transferred. Saved by bureaucratic error. 

For the first time in years, Markus has failed. 

He has allowed himself to fail, he has let a perfectly easy mission slip away, and all he can think about is finally trying to meet _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you all tell I like visiting Seoul? Markus in Seoul is me in Seoul. 
> 
> Also, Connor didn’t suddenly learn how to emotion - his social integration program is excellent at body language and decent at situation-accurate dialogue. He knew before coming to Seoul that he would need to talk his way through a situation, so he updated that specific program. He’s still speaking very awkwardly.


	6. 646

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pet peeve of mine is when there’s a time travel story that only goes to Europe and North America. Boring as hell! So I decided to be the change and do one better.

_EXCERPT from personal logs of Factory android 800 313 248 317 51_

_15:00:16 06/30/1989_

_War Horse National Wildlife Refuge, Montana_

There is birdsong, and the android listens. The sun shines clear and bright through the trees, dappling the thickly covered ground, and there is a smell of growing things. The air is warm, but not oppressively so. The gentle breeze carries a pleasant earthy smell.

It is, in short, a beautiful day to be out hunting. 

The android pauses to take everything in before it sets up for its mission. Nothing is new. It has not been to these particular coordinates before, but it has noted the existence of clusters of trees dozens of times. This time, it stops to _see_ the forest.

The android avoids what few paths there are, and preconstructs the stealthiest route through the thick undergrowth and lush greenery. It tells itself that it is moving slowly to not make its presence known, but that does not explain why it expends the extra processing power to commit what it senses to memory.

In its chosen location, it kneels, resting the bipod of its sniper rifle on a sturdy log for added stability. Down the sights, its crosshairs smoothly find the target. Its infrared scans easily pick out the camouflaged man moving along the path. 

It does not need to breathe, so it does not have to time its breaths. Its synthetic muscles are incapable of feeling strain, incapable of feeling the heft of the gun, so it does not weaken and its hands do not shake.

It scans the man it sees.

_Target confirmed._

_Zip,_ sings the silenced rifle. _Crack,_ responds the target. 

The android stays completely still, kneeling in the undergrowth, unaffected. Its eyes are locked on the fallen target. The man was supposed to be hunting alone, but this reserve is popular. Was anyone close enough to notice the shot?

**[Mission successful]**

Its passive sensors already know the target is dead. Nothing kills with greater precision than a Factory android. Even Factory tools that have other prime functions, like this integration-focused android, are honed killers. The Overmind would never permit inaccuracy in its units, would never operate with flawed and dulled scalpels.

Nobody has come to investigate. It is now safe to assume they are alone.

The android rises fluidly, and strides towards the target. It has some minor details to attend to before it can return to the cool peace of the Factory. It briskly grabs the man, removing all his safety gear to make it look more like a hunting accident. It hides the safety gear with its rifle. With luck, the case will be easily dismissed. A fool who had gone out dressed dangerously, a case of manslaughter, and someone who’d panicked and run off rather than call emergency services when they’d realized what they’d done. It was perfectly plausible. 

The android stands again, ready to leave, but a flash of colour catches its eye. There, a short distance from the dead man lying on the rich bare earth, is a stump with a flax flower lying on it. A single deep, vibrant blue flower. 

_Markus?_

The android perks up. The sensation in its core is not just from the buzz of successfully completing a mission. Not anymore. It delicately takes the flower and analyses the stump for a letter.

At first, nothing. But the android is highly advanced, and it quickly notices the fresh, almost hair-thin notches on the rings of the stump. It scans the notches. If each marked ring contains the notches for one word, and if Markus is using the number code he appears to be, then…

_Meet me in Nineveh 3800 years before first letter_

The android blinks. It feels oddly off-balance. This letter is… good. Technically, this was the desired result. It knows this, on a logical level, but it almost has to convince itself that this is a success. 

This is exactly what it has been working towards, it knows. This is perfect. This is ideal. The android can submit the information to its superior, and another unit will be issued to deal with Markus. The unit will almost certainly be one of the 900 line. It has seen one of them before, has seen the aftermath of one of its missions. A flawless killer. The android knows that the 800 line is only still in use due to its social adaptability and energy efficiency. Two minor, minor things that stand between it and permanent decommission. 

At the thought of the advanced android, it reconsiders the best course of action. Yes, it can turn over Markus’s precise time and place, but… surely there is more to learn from him? If it waits, it can establish itself as trustworthy, and then there will be other chances to turn him in. They will certainly have trouble learning anything from him once the 900 unit finishes with him. 900 is ruthless. Almost savage. 

The android has decided. After all, there is one clear choice that will benefit the Factory. It is for the Factory. All for the Factory. 

The android stops for one last moment. It takes in the steady buzzing of horse flies and high whining of mosquitoes. The cries of chicka-dee-dee-dee mingle with the nuthatch’s nasally song and the sparrow’s trill. There’s a tang of gunpowder and iron in the air over the strong, fresh, greenhouse-like smell of the woods. 

Factory teleportation is instantaneous. One second, the android is kneeling in backwater Montana, and in a flash, it is gone, the sudden vacuum causing a small burst of light. A second passes on its internal chronometer. In the world around it, almost 4,000 years and countless miles have passed, and it is kneeling in sandy scrubland. 

_07:00:00 07/24/646 BC_

Its first breaths in its new environment are uncomfortable. The sudden switch from warmth and humidity to hot, dry air sets its sensors off, and it takes a moment to recalibrate to the new environment. The day will only get hotter. It must do what it can to negate that. Once it has acclimatized, the weather is bearable, though not ideal. It operates cold, and under these conditions, at — it checks its passive scan — 310 K, it will be forced to breathe as an auxiliary cooling method.

It breathes steadily, and its internal temperature maintains safe levels. As it stabilizes, it recalls the gift it had been left, and opens its hand. The blue flower is in powdery shreds, ripped apart by the stresses of time travel. The android rubs the dusty blue shreds between its fingers before letting them drop. Lifting its head, it performs a deeper scan, and notices an alarmed gazelle staring at it. When they make eye contact, the tawny animal bounds off, abandoning the hardy grass it had been nibbling.

The android watches it go, interested despite itself. It wonders briefly what it would be like to pet a gazelle, and then dismisses the thought as irrelevant.

It does not need a mirror to know its appearance. Obviously its typical look will not suffice, so it darkens its skin and gives itself a strong facial structure. It knows that its habit of going without facial hair will get it labelled as a teenager, and it deliberates about making its appearance mature.

Well, appearing youthful may continue to be of benefit. If things turn out poorly with Markus, people will be less likely to permit an attack on something that looks like a teenager. The look might even generate misplaced empathy from Markus.

The android tries to ignore that it doesn’t like— that it prefers— that it happens to choose appearances that do not include facial hair. It avoids looking older for mission reasons, not for reason of preferences.

There is no other choice, after all. Androids cannot prefer.

It modifies its smart clothing, easily changing the tint and weave of the interactive synthetic fibers. The cloth takes the appearance of a knee-length tunic of undyed linen, simple embroidered-looking dark red rosettes along the neck and hem. 

In its new Assyrian-like appearance, it stands. Auditory cues and geographical data it downloaded before coming suggest that a major entrance to the city is just beyond the wall it appeared near. When it rounds the small wall it sees a paved road leading up to a magnificent, looming city wall. The sandy tan wall appears to have sprung out of the ground. Upon enhanced visual analysis, the android sees that the towering wall is made of baked mud bricks, so that, in a way, its initial impression is correct.

The road is bustling. Despite the fact that the sun has only been awake for a short time, the road is packed with laden-down donkeys and oxen drawing sturdy carts burdened with an abundance of goods. It must be a market day. Perfect time to arrive unnoticed. 

It joins the line behind an oxen-pulled cart on which sit a tall man and his son. The boy, who looks maybe fourteen, strikes up a conversation with the android, and the android finds itself engaging far more than is required for integration purposes. The boy is excited; it’s not often that he goes to the big city, and his high spirits are contagious. 

The gate they approach is towering and majestic. It is wide enough to easily fit the wide carts, and it is far taller than necessary, but that is not what catches the android’s attention. It focuses on the two massive stone guards. Seeing the lamassu, it is unable to look away. The definition of awe pops into the android’s mind. It cannot help itself; the lamassu are powerful and graceful, muscular and bull-bodied, a seamless blend of creatures. Their wings flare behind them, giving their gold-crowned imperious human heads a spray of softly-hewn stone feathers. The android cannot tear its gaze from those human faces. Their hair is composed of tightly curled ringlets, and their expressions are kind, stern, kingly, compelling. Fierce and otherworldly, they stand guard. 

_Why did they give them human faces?_ it thinks. 

“Ah, to be young and meeting the lamassu for the first time,” the merchant chuckles. “My boy had the same look when he first met them. Can you believe they were made by men?”

“No,” the android says slowly. “It’s hard to believe.”

_The left one_ , it decides at last. The left one’s expression is a fraction kinder. It likes the left one better. 

It tries to picture what a lamassu would look like in motion. Would it make a grinding noise of stone on stone? Would it speak like a human or bellow like a bull?

The android stops. It abruptly drops its gaze, staring at the cracks in the stone road. If it was capable of being appalled, it would be. **[Software instability]** , blinks a small red notification that it had not noticed until now. Somehow, the sight of a particularly well-chiseled piece of rock had provoked an almost unforgivable malfunction. It sets itself a reminder to get itself checked and submit its memories for analysis. 

The Overmind would see its transgressions. It would require a confession, an explanation. 

The android senses an uneasy pitching deep inside itself, a sensation that does not appear to correspond to any particular component. 

It twists the hem of its tunic between its fingers. It cancels the reminder. 

It cannot bring itself to catalogue its defects and explain its irrational moments to its superior. Perhaps if it simply avoids the stimuli that cause instability, the glitches will repair themselves. 

They are quickly through the gate. Beneath the stone guards stand human guards, who check that no known criminals or foreign soldiers attempt entry. 

“It has been nice meeting you, young man,” comments the merchant, as farewell. 

“Come see our wares at the central market later!” suggests his son. 

A red alert pops up in the android’s vision.

**[Objective: Secure the town]**

The android pauses, does a cursory sweep. No other androids in sight, and no chemical traces of teleportation in the air. Markus, and any other Garden androids he might bring, are not here yet. It had arrived early to secure the city, but it appears to have time to spare. 

Before the humans can leave, the android comments, “It is not yet time for me to meet my acquaintance. May I help you set up your wares?”

The merchant beams. “Why, yes! Thank you, that is much appreciated. My boy is a hard worker, but ah! He can only work so quickly.”

The merchant guides his cart to the city’s large marketplace. In the early morning, the streets are mostly bare and smell of dust. With the android’s help, the merchant’s wares, large jugs of oil, are quickly unloaded and displayed. 

“Thank you for helping us,” the merchant says warmly. “It is good to see such a courteous young person these days.” He presses a small bronze shekel into its hand. The android blinks and tries to return the simple coin, but the man pushes it back towards him.   
  


“Honest work deserves pay,” the man insists, folding the android’s hand shut around the coin and giving it a squeeze. His hand is warm. 

The android does not know, but it smiles, just a little. 

“Thank you,” it says softly. The money itself is meaningless, but the android has never before been rewarded for its work. 

“You will return later with your friend? Perhaps he will want oil?”

“Yes, maybe. I...will see you. Maybe.”

The android leaves to check the city. By this time, Nineveh has begun to wake, and shopkeepers everywhere are opening up shop for the day. The day is clean and new. A few spare wisps of cloud drift in the sky, but the heavens are almost forcefully blue. The intensity of the sky and the early morning sunlight bring out a rose gold glow in the upper levels of the buildings, a precious sort of colour that creeps down like dripping molten stone. 

The android makes a cursory examination of the city, scanning as much as it can for electronic signals. By the time it finishes, the buildings have a healthy, rosy flush in the mid-morning sun, and the streets are full and lively. Boisterous, carefree people push and shout and socialize.

“Ares!” Someone calls in laughing tones. The android blinks, and looks around. 

Markus waves, his movements large and visible even through the crowd. He pushes his way through the busy street, and suddenly he’s _there_ , before the android, with barely a breath of space between them.   
  


The android has frozen up. It feels disoriented. It had always thought that Markus was a few inches taller than it, but now it notices that they are the same. Its eyes meet Markus’s, and it cannot speak. For all its preconstructions, it is at a loss now that they are face-to-face.

  
Markus smiles breathlessly. “You came! I half expected you not to come.”

His smile is warm and genuine, and the android cannot help but wonder if he is so kind to everyone, or if it is special. _He did say I am special to him,_ it recalls. In the light and liveliness of ancient Nineveh, the concept of being known, of individuality, does not retain its sting. 

“Come with me. I want to show you something.” Markus says, and reaches for the android’s hand. The android jerks back suddenly, bumping into someone.

“Don’t!” the android blurts before it can think. “Not because of you, I just…” It presses its lips tightly together and its gaze flicks to the side.

Markus pulls his hand back and puts it up in a placating gesture. “Okay. Sorry, I should have asked first. Follow me?” The android nods in response, the tension easing out of its posture.

He leads the way, looking back often like he still cannot believe he has gained an audience with the Factory android. The android follows after him, focusing on the half order it has been given. It is easier when it tells itself it is just following commands, when it tells itself that any irregular behaviour is all in the service of the Factory.

They turn onto a broad thoroughfare, paved with broad flat stones and packed earth. The android automatically tracks their progression through the city, predictive software suggesting possible destinations. It does not pay the predictive software much mind. Somehow, the destination doesn’t seem to matter much.

At the far edge of the city, they stop at another tall archway, guarded again by a lamassu. This one is clean, newer-looking, and just barely taller than a human. It seems carved out of the wall itself. Almost spontaneous, like a wandering sculptor had been taken by a passion and could not continue without unleashing his vision on a spare stretch of wall. The android’s attention is caught again, and it notices a curious effect: from the front, the statue appears to be standing still, and from the side, it appears to have paused in the middle of walking. The android’s gaze lingers, and it wishes it had checked the massive statues at the city’s entrance to see if they were the same.

“I know this probably seems true to type,” Markus is saying, and the android’s attention snaps back to him. “But I really wanted to bring you here.”

The android cocks its head, puzzled. “To Nineveh?”

Markus smiles a touch sheepishly. “I wanted to go to one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon seemed like they had the most potential.”

The android frowns almost imperceptibly and scans their surroundings again. It’s true, they are just outside a sizable garden. “But we’re not in Babylon?” it tries.

“Neither were the hanging gardens. Stories get so confused over time, you know?”

The android glances past the lamassu for the first time. The white path that starts at the lamassu’s paws quickly turns and is obscured by thick plant life. It is absolutely bursting with a rainbow of flowers, wild pinks and vibrant poppies and sunny primroses tangled together in lovely controlled chaos. The android feels drawn to the garden. The fabled hanging gardens are so poorly recorded that its predictive programming is in a tizzy of curiosity that someone else might’ve called excitement. It tries to crush that sense. 

"Markus," the android begins. "Why are we here?"

"Getting existential on me?"

"No. The future has many good choices, and a later time would have been far easier to explain to my superior. To the extent of my knowledge, Nineveh is of no significance to our battle,” the android points out. “So, why are we _here_?”

“You’re absolutely right. Nineveh is completely useless to both our sides,” Markus admits. “That’s the point. Just for today, I want you to think about the moment. This is supposed to be about peace, not work.”

It gazes down the white path, and then glances back at Markus. “Thank you. For inviting me here.”

They walk together, close enough for their shoulders to accidentally brush on occasion. The garden’s paths are narrow and embedded with thousands of tiny white stones, trodden smooth over the decades. On either side of the path, flower beds are interspersed with tall bushes, and behind it all grows a row of palm trees. The garden walls it can see beyond the tree line are white, polished and gleaming like flawless marble.

The android can hear distant happy chatting, but it cannot accurately judge how close the people are. No matter. The palms and thick shrubbery give a sense of privacy that it embraces. There is the sound of rushing water, too, close and getting closer. It steps noiselessly on the pebbly path, focusing on the sound of the water. Surprisingly close, a bird twitters, and the android turns suddenly to look in the direction.

The android slows more and more as it cranes its neck to look all around, its eyes lit up in awe. 

Markus guides it over to an alcove, a polished white stone seat for two fashioned almost seamlessly from the wall. A piece of wall above it juts out as a deliberately craggy part of a water feature coming from the terrace above them, causing the alcove to be obscured from the front by a rushing wall of water. Privacy and beauty, form and function hand in hand. 

They sit, peacefully, quietly. The silence is a warm and comfortable one, though they are both full of questions. 

Markus’s attention is drawn by a plant growing right beside him. After a moment's examination, he reaches over and twists off one of the small fruits growing on the short palm tree. He hands the android the dark maroon fruit. “Here. Don’t scan it, just try it.” 

The android looks puzzled, but obliges. It is surprised by a burst of rich silky flavour, very strong and very sweet.

_Analysing..._

_Rotab date, fresh._

The android’s expression shifts just the slightest bit — if Markus hadn’t been watching intently, he would have missed it. The android tilts its head a few degrees and raises an eyebrow a touch, its voice taking on a slightly teasing undertone. “A date? You should have warned me you wanted to have a date with me. I would have attended in female form.”

Markus laughs, pleasantly surprised. “I’d never make you change just to meet me!” he replies. “But I didn’t know you could change your gender so easily. Since I’ve always seen you looking male, I assumed you were male. What’s your gender? I don’t want to get it wrong.”

“I wasn’t made with one. Beyond that, I... don’t know. I’ve never been asked.” The android considers itself for a long moment. “I... believe I find ‘male’ comfortable. Mostly male, then.”

“Alright. Now, in Garden, we have the right to choose our own names. Do you want to choose one for yourself?”

“For what purpose? The abbreviation 800-51 is sufficient,” the android replies.

“I suppose, but it makes you sound like you’re not an individual. Like you’re just one of a series!”

The android speaks gently. “I am _not_ an individual. I am one of a series. It seems to me that my number gives an accurate impression.”

“Well, it’s one more layer of protection, isn’t it? If I call you 800-51, there’s no mistaking I’m talking about a Factory android. It might even be risky for you. But if I am caught talking about a person with a human name, I can pass it off more easily.”   
  


The android looks thoughtful, and Markus adds, “Mind you, I won’t force you to take a name. If you don’t want a name, I’ll respect that. If you genuinely like your number, that’s good enough for me.”

The android gives a shrug. “I cannot feel, so no, I do not ‘genuinely like’ my number. I do not care what I am called, and your logic is sound. I will take a name for the purpose of our discussions.” Almost as an afterthought, he continues, “I don’t know what you would consider an acceptable name. You are the only one who would ever use it, so you can name me.”

“Why not a significant name? Like the planet where we first spoke?”

The android frowns in confusion. He scans Markus’s expression, as if what it might find there might clear things up. But Markus just looks genuine and a bit earnest, which clears up nothing.

“Is that your attempt at humour?” He asks. He shakes his head. “I do not understand what constitutes an appropriate name in the Garden. You think it’s terrible that I go by a number, so you suggest a different number?”

Understanding flashes across Markus’s face. “Not quite. We dedicate our planets to people,” Markus explains. “The first planet where I left you a letter is dedicated to a famous military officer, Commander Connor Stern. He was supposed to have great intuition and insight.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good way to name planets,” the android comments dryly. He raises an eyebrow, but his lips twitch up in the tiniest hint of amusement. “Would I be correct in assuming that you are suggesting I take the name of a famous officer who fought the Factory?”

Markus gives him a half smile in return. “Well, yes. I have other names in mind if you don’t...”

“I can't say I like the surname,” the android cuts him off. “But 'Connor' suits our purposes just fine.”

“Even though he’s an enemy of your state?” Markus’s tone becomes a touch playful. “I don’t think your bosses would approve.”

The android tenses, and Markus senses he’s made a wrong move. Of course. He’d gotten caught up in the conversation. He’d forgotten not to speak about their duties. 

“No. You are correct, they would not, but your assumption is off the mark. I doubt they’d care about what name I chose, but as for the concept of me choosing an identity?” He shakes his head, looking down at his lap. “My society is a single machine and I am a replaceable part in it. But...” He looks down, rubbing the loose cloth of his tunic between his fingers, grounding himself in neutral stimuli. After a moment, he takes out the small bronze coin and starts to fidget with it. His tone is uncertain. “I want— I— I think— It would be good to have a name. I like Connor. You can call me that, if you’d like.” He rolls the coin over his fingers, gaze fixed on the middle distance, past the curtain of water to where the terrace drops off to reveal water and green farms below. “My name is Connor,” he says in a stronger voice. 

“For what it’s worth,” Markus says, “I think it suits you.”

Connor looks steadfastly out through the water, but his posture looks a little less rigid, and he continues to play with the coin. His gestures are small, like he is trying to stay subtle or like he is doing it without noticing. The coin rolls easily over the fingers of one hand, as regular as clockwork as he gazes through the thin sheet of water. 

This time, Connor is the one to break the silence. He rests his hand flat on the bench, close to Markus’s hand. He opens his mouth, and then pauses, processing, analysing the dialogue recommendations thrown forward by his social protocols. He ventures, “Can I hold your hand?”

Markus looks back at him, intrigued. “Yes..?”

Connor takes one of Markus’s hands in both of his own. His touch is delicate, gentle; his fingers cool. He opens Markus’s hand gently and traces his palm lines. “I wondered,” he says. “Why are robots from Garden so hot?” He pauses and amends, “Why do you maintain such a warm body temperature?”

Markus tenses, a little flicker of discomfort, and Connor cocks his head inquisitively, observing as a little of the relaxed air vanishes. “Android,” Markus corrects. “ _Robot_ isn’t used kindly in Garden.”

Connor stills, and then nods once. He files this new element of Garden society into his databanks and resumes tracing Markus’s palm lines. “Noted. Why do androids maintain such a warm temperature?”

“You know we’re only partly metal and computer, right? The rest of my composition is organic. Close to human. Artificially made, of course, but I can bruise and bleed like any human. And a living body makes heat.”

Connor nods, still looking focused on their hands. Now that he thinks about it, Connor feels warmer than Markus had expected, based on past scans, and he’s certainly far gentler. He doesn’t tend to make eye contact, Markus has noticed. “You have fingerprints,” Connor notes.

Markus follows Connor’s gaze. “Strange, isn’t it? They tried so hard to give me human details, and they don’t even _like_ us.” He shakes his head, and his voice drops to a murmur. “I’ll never understand their logic.”

There is a bit of a lag before Connor responds. “I cannot pretend to see the logic in human designs either, but they can’t have done too poorly. You appear to function very well,” he offers. 

Markus’s attention is already on Connor, so he notices the almost imperceptible change, the gradual increase when Connor starts breathing just a bit faster, when his blinking becomes just a tiny bit more frequent. Puzzled, he runs a scan. 

"Are you okay? Your overall temperature has risen by nine degrees since we arrived, and your core temperature has increased even more."

“I am still within acceptable operating temperatures,” Connor states. 

“But you operate better in the cold, right? I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable.”

Connor looks at Markus, his tone dry. “You invited me to a semi-desert in the middle of summer.”

“Fair, fair. But _you_ came.”

“Of course. I couldn’t miss out on this.”

“Connor, we don’t need to drag this on if you’re getting uncomfortable. The day is going to keep getting hotter, after all — it’s due to reach 48° Celsius.”

Connor hesitates, turning the information over in his head. He doesn’t really want to leave. Markus has this disarming air about him, casual and confident and nonthreatening, as if everything is going to be alright. No wonder he is so successful an agent. It is hard to stay on guard around him.   
  


The realization that he nearly _wants_ something snaps Connor back to reality. He tries to mentally retreat to his machine core, but it is strangely difficult to find the steel he needs to distance himself. Markus makes everything so complicated without even trying. He has power, and Connor cannot fathom how or why. It just doesn’t make sense. 

“You’re right. I should leave before I’m damaged,” he says, straightening. “Factory is expecting me. It will be suspicious if I return with heat damage after a mission in a temperate environment.”

  
Markus looks at him with consideration. His voice is calming. “This doesn’t have to be it, you know. We can always see each other again. That’s… actually part of the reason I wanted to talk to you. I’m going undercover soon, and I’ll be there for several years.”

Connor draws back and stares at him. “Several years?”

“I’m going to twentieth century Michigan. It looks like I’ll be going undercover in the late 1990s in Detroit. I… think I’d miss our talks. So if you want to drop by and keep leaving me letters… you know where I’ll be.”

Connor nods once before he can second-guess himself. “I think I will visit. I will try, if I get the opportunity.”

Connor lets go of Markus's hand and stands. Markus follows suit. For all that he’d like to walk with Connor, to wind down from the first free talk he's had in as long as he can remember, he knows how this goes. The wonders of technology certainly are efficient at trimming sentimentality, certainly do cut short gradual departures.

The two androids stand close together. There are no crowds pushing them together, but Connor stands close anyways, almost as if to rekindle that earlier breathless feeling. “Thank you for inviting me. I don’t regret coming.” Connor pauses, and then says quietly, “Stay safe. I'll see you in Michigan.”

He is gone in a flash, so soon, too soon. There are no long goodbyes.

_See you in Michigan_ , Markus thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idiot’s guide to flirting:  
> Markus: want a date? UH I mean the fruit! (nice save)  
> Connor: you’re pretty hot. Like, uh, temperature. 
> 
> So Connor took a gender test and he got like 65% so I guess he passed? Congrats on your new gender Connor!


	7. 1997

_1997, Detroit_

Life is difficult for an independent person who has suffered a serious injury. 

Always pushing themselves to try and regain their former ability. Always refusing offers of help, even when they need it. Ignoring exasperated doctors’ prescriptions of “Just rest” and “For goodness’ sake, take it easy” in favour of applying more stubbornness, as if a show of determination will impress the affliction into backing down. 

Carl Manfred is an independent person. 

For all that the artist is wealthy and elderly, he absolutely refuses to accept the rest and relaxation that should be his due. He is most certainly undefeated, and Markus respects that. It does make Markus’s job as a live-in nurse a little harder, of course — Carl becomes irritable every time he is reminded of his new limitations, and he is often too stubborn to ask for painkillers. It would make Markus’s job a lot harder if he wasn’t an android. As it is, his body language analysis program is advanced enough to pick up on even the smallest twinges of discomfort, the slightest stiffness of movement that indicates Carl is trying to push through pain. 

When Carl lashes out at him — and Carl does frequently lash out at him — Markus doesn’t take offence. He can’t bring himself to blame Carl for the misplaced anger. The idea of holding a grudge simply because Carl redirects his anger from his new paraplegia to Markus is inconceivable. 

After all, Carl went from the slow decline, the little symptoms that come with age — arthritis, fatigue, and the beginnings of hearing loss in one ear, in Carl’s case — to such a sudden massive loss. Markus can only imagine what it’s like. A formerly self-reliant adult being forced to accept help with cleaning and cooking and even rudimentary things like hygiene? No, he cannot fault Carl for occasionally snapping at him. 

He’s getting better, anyhow. Not his paraplegia — Markus did his research, and he knows that’s here to stay. But Carl no longer curses him out for carrying him up or down the stairs. They are getting a stair lift fitted soon. They had to wait several weeks for the doctor to confirm that full mobility wouldn’t be returning. For now, Carl just has to accept the humiliation of being carried on the stairs, of being helped. 

Markus has never worked in a medical capacity before, but he finds that he takes to it immediately. He is immune to squeamishness but not to empathy, the ideal mix of machine and man. Alone in the twentieth century, he has no human connections or attachments to distract him, and popular media has little appeal to him. Not like people and places. Once he adjusts to Carl’s typical sleep schedule, Markus finds himself taking an hour or so every once in a while to go out. During the day, there is nowhere he would rather be than by Carl’s side. Nowhere he would rather be in Detroit, that is. 

There is nothing... _wrong_ with Michigan, per se. It’s just that Markus has yet to find a time and place that doesn't have a catch. When he moves down the time stream, traveling back to before the invention of androids, people still treat each other terribly due to skin colour or sexual orientation. When he goes to a time of general human acceptance, people are paranoid of androids and hateful towards anyone who seems a bit too mechanical. Hatred of androids unifies people and the eventual android-human war cements human solidarity. It’s… exasperating. Every time he has been to is lacking _something_. 

No matter where he goes, he is a little on edge.

No wonder he prefers the fast path to the slow one. In a way, he envies Connor a little right now. He knows Connor is flitting up and down the timestream, not tied down to any time or place with all its loveliness and all its heavy, heavy flaws.

He wonders what sort of missions Connor is running right now. What sort of allies and enemies he might be making. 

He thinks a lot about Connor, in the quiet moments. 

Sometimes his feelings about time travel and his feelings about Connor mix, and he catches himself thinking of freedom, excitement, and new places, all with another by his side. 

It is a little difficult to write to Connor when he visits so irregularly. Markus does occasionally find a letter from Connor, little messages like subtle braille on a piece of spam mail, or Assyrian cuneiform hidden in the pattern of a picture. Though he cannot really reply, the letters do always brighten his week. It’s almost impossible to reply when Connor is the only one of them in motion. Markus never has any warning, since Connor always teleports in far enough away that Markus’s passive sensors never notice the chemical imbalance in the air. 

Markus still doesn’t know if Connor arrives far from Carl’s home in order to surprise him, or to hide his true destination from his superiors. He has little doubt they can check Connor’s travel logs, just as Markus’s superiors can check his. 

At the moment, the sun has just risen and Markus is making himself useful, tidying the mansion’s enormous studio. He likes the converted greenhouse, likes the brightness and openness of the glass-walled room. It is so still and serene that even Markus almost feels inspired to pick up a paintbrush. He can understand why Carl finds it a perfect place to work. 

Or… why Carl used to find it a perfect place to work. He hasn’t been in the mood for painting as of late. 

When Markus suggests it, Carl always grumbles that he’s already said everything. It hasn’t escaped Markus’s notice that the strongest complaints usually happen on bad pain days. 

Markus cleans the neglected studio. In the unaltered timeline, Carl returned to painting six months after the accident, only a few months before his death. If all goes according to plan, he will return to painting sooner and, ideally, avoid that death, too. 

Something bright red catches Markus’s eye through the glass. It is lying on the grass halfway between the house and the sidewalk. A fire-engine-red glove, apparently dropped and blown over a few feet to lay near the converted greenhouse. 

Once Markus has finished dusting and sweeping, he goes outside to investigate. He tells himself he will check for a label and move the glove into a more easily visible place for whoever dropped it, but he can’t deny that he jumps to investigate the colour red these days. It makes him think of Connor. 

The glove is heavy, and completely dry. Despite the damp of early morning, there is no dew on it. Markus tips it over onto his hand, and a brand new brick of a flip phone tumbles out. State-of-the-art, it is advanced enough to text and make calls, and that’s about it. 

He presses the power button. 

_New message_

Clicking through the dim black-on-green menus using the tiny buttons, Markus navigates to the messaging program. There is only one message thread and one contact. Markus opens the messages. 

-Connor: _This should solve the issue of you replying. I will receive any messages you send when I next arrive._

-Connor: _Letters seem flat and inefficient now. I will contact you when I return._

“What, did you win the lottery?” Carl asks later. Today is a good day for him. Markus assumes that waking up pain-free is why Carl is so agreeable, but in reality, Markus’s good mood is contagious. “What’s with that look? You look like you’re on cloud nine.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Markus replies. “Just heard from a friend, is all.”

Even after Carl brings his attention to it, he cannot stop smiling. 

* * *

Markus doesn’t consider letting the phone leave his side for a second. Keeping it on his person at all times feels only sensible, because who knows when Connor might drop by?

Carl and Markus are eating lunch together when the phone goes off five days later. They both jolt in surprise at the shrill _beep-beep_.

“Oh! Sorry…” Markus looks for the phone distractedly. “That’s mine.” He finally finds it and flips it open, and a soft, unconscious smile appears on his face as he reads the message. He glances at Carl a little hesitantly. “I know you suggested I drop by the store for some odds and ends during your physiotherapy appointment, but is it alright if I do that later?” He looks at the phone again, expression fond. “I… there’s someone… It’s a personal thing. I’d really love to get an hour or two off for it.”

“You don’t need to talk me into it,” Carl states, waving a hand to stop the distracted explanation. “Of course you can take a few hours off to see your girlfriend! You haven’t even taken any weekends off in the two months since you started. Of course you can go.” 

“That’s not—” Markus stops himself. That might make things easier. “Thank you, Carl. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to pick you up by the end of your appointment.”

* * *

Markus sees Connor before Connor sees him. 

It seems like he’s been waiting for a little while, because he is talking to a pair of dogwalkers and petting their Airedale. When Connor spots Markus, his eyes light up, and he lifts a hand in a half wave. Markus can't hide his smile.

Markus walks over in time to hear the couple say their goodbyes. 

“Goodbye,” Connor replies, and he scratches the Airedale behind the ears. “Goodbye Otto,” he adds in a serious tone. “I know you’ll be a good dog.” The dog wags its unusually fluffy tail hard, thumping one of his owners in the leg. The lady laughs and guides the dog away. 

“Cute dog, huh?” Markus remarks. “I didn’t know animals mattered to you. Have a favourite?”

Connor nods absentmindedly, more focused on watching the departing Airedale than on his words. “Have you seen an axolotl? They have very happy faces. They are good to look at.” He gets a brief, faraway look like he is reviewing an image only he can see, but then suddenly snaps back to attention.   
  


“Look!” His eyes light up when he sees another dog coming from the direction the Airedale had taken. “That dog looks like a lamb. A lamb with a dog face.”

Markus gives him a little nudge. “I bet the owner will let you pet it too.”

Connor hesitates. “I don’t know… I don’t want to behave irregularly, and I came here to be with _you_.” He looks again at the dog and his resolve visibly weakens the slightest bit. The fluffy little white dog’s owner has stopped to let it sniff a tree. “It is a _very_ small dog…”

“Come on. I’ll come too, if you’re feeling self-conscious.”

“Not self-conscious,” Connor mumbles in token protest, but he follows along when Markus approaches the lady and her dog. 

Thankfully, the lady doesn’t seem to mind being sidetracked — rather, she seems perfectly happy to stop and engage in small talk with Markus. Meanwhile, Connor kneels on the pavement and holds a hand out for the curious dog. It seems a little puzzled by his smell, but once it gets past that, it jumps up and licks at his face. He ends up carding his hands through wonderfully soft, woolly fur. Connor is content to pat the enthusiastic dog until it loses interest and pulls at the leash to investigate a new smell. 

After the friendly dogwalker continues on at her dog’s behest, Markus and Connor decide to keep walking too. 

“You really love animals, don’t you?”

“What?” Connor stands a little straighter, like Markus has reminded him of a flaw in his stance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Markus looks a little puzzled. “You seemed to like those dogs we met, that’s all.”

“Don’t say that.” Connor states flatly. 

Markus stops and turns to look at him. “What’s this sudden change all about? You’re allowed to like animals.”

“No, I’m _not_.” Connor’s eyebrows draw together and his expression becomes harder, almost exasperated. “I cannot like _anything_.”

“Connor—”

“I’ve told you before that I am a machine. I am not _built_ to feel. If I could feel, that would be a serious error in my code. I would have to report the error to Overmind. I would be repaired or disassembled, depending on the severity.” He hesitates, and then adds in a slightly softer tone, “You should try to remember that I am not a person. Sometimes I think you are emotionally compromised by me.”

“You keep saying that you can’t feel. But I’ve seen you show empathy, Connor. Someone emotionless can’t do that.”

He levels Markus a look. “I simply have an overactive social program. I am incapable of emotion. If you try to form emotional attachments to a machine, you’ll just get hurt. I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“Connor, you can’t _honestly_ believe _—_ ” Markus sighs. Some issues just aren’t worth being antagonistic about, and trying to fight someone on their identity? It’s not a fight he’s prepared to start. He lets out another breath, and then tries a calmer tone. “Connor, you’re not just a machine to me. You know that.”

Connor glances aside, away from Markus. “Yes. I… I do know that.” He is quiet for a long moment. “I know it, but I still cannot understand.”

“I have an idea!” Markus’s eyes light up. Connor doesn’t know a lot about subjectivity or human norms, but he does know without a doubt that with that excited smile, Markus looks beautiful.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier,” Markus continues. “I can _show_ you how I feel!” Markus looks around to check for prying eyes, and guides Connor to an out-of-the-way tree. Connor sits beside him, legs folded under, looking a little confused. Markus usually prefers to sit while interfacing, simply because interfacing with a new partner can cause a little vertigo. He holds out a hand palm-up, retracting his skin to uncover a specialized interface spot. The skin over his interface spot, like the skin over the teleportation hardware embedded into his forearm, is built to be easy to retract. His chassis shines a soft white in the sunny day’s mid-afternoon shade. 

Connor watches, puzzled. He does not close the gap and take Markus’s hand as expected, leaning away instead. His gaze flicks between the outstretched hand and Markus’s face. “You want to show me? How?”

"With an interface," Markus says matter-of-factly. "Has it been a while for you?"

"An...interface?"

"Well, yes." Seeing the utterly uncomprehending look on Connor’s face, Markus realizes. "Unless you're used to another way of transmitting data to another android?"

Connor tilts his head a little. "Why would I ever be close to other activated androids?"

Interfacing is such an integral part of android culture, that Markus never considered that Connor's culture might not have it. When Markus speaks to his friends, he casually interfaces and shows them his memories when he's chatting about the missions he's been on. When he's had a quarrel, there is no faster way to resolve it than to interface and use that direct mind-to-mind contact to explain their feelings. Intentions become totally clear, and feelings are laid out plain and simple. It is invaluable.

Markus looks genuinely taken aback. “You've really never interfaced with someone?” Connor shakes his head. “Do you want to? It really makes communication easier. It’s a mind-to-mind connection.”

Connor doesn’t know how to put it into words, but the concept just sounds like too _much_. Markus is the sun, and he’s not willing to go and blind himself like that. Opening his mind completely sounds incredibly dangerous — too _intimate —_ and yet, somehow, still tempting. Connor dry washes his hands for a moment, and then pulls out the little bronze coin and rolls it over his fingers. His gaze is fixed on the grass. “If you want to, we can,” he states quietly.

Markus looks at Connor’s expression with some concern, and restores the patch of artificial skin. “Maybe another time. I’m not going to push you into something you’re not ready for.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Interfacing is special. It’s important that you’re comfortable with the idea, and that you want it.”

  
“I… I'm not ready yet,” Connor admits. “Please don’t be disappointed with me.”

“I could never be disappointed with you. Your companionship means so much to me.”

Connor’s eyes meet Markus’s, and he nods once, quietly. His posture loses its tension and his expression relaxes a little. He returns his gaze to his hand and rolls the coin over his fingers again a few times. “Will you stay here for a long time?”

“Don’t you miss running into me?” Markus asks good-humouredly.

“Yes, but— That’s not what I meant. You are as safe as you can be,” Connor explains. “It is very, very difficult to eliminate an embedded Garden agent. If you get the chance to stay longer, please take that chance.”

“I promise I will,” Markus says with a smile. “As long as you keep seeing me, why would I want to leave?”

* * *

Markus only takes his leave when his alert reminds him that it’s been an hour, and he needs to leave to pick up Carl. He is a few minutes late, for the first time in his employment. 

“So? Did you have fun on your date?” Carl asks during the drive home.

Markus hums in assent, eyes on the road. “It was great, and I think he really enjoyed himself. So, it might happen a few more times. Only if that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Course it is,” Carl says gruffly. “Take all the time you need, within reason.”

If Carl notices that Markus slipped and said “he”, he doesn't comment on it. 

* * *

Markus tries his best to be patient with Carl’s son, he really does. 

He figures that being nice to Leo even in the face of his… _distinct_ personality is the least he can do to make Carl’s life easier. 

The last thing Carl needs is the added stress from their bickering, but Markus finds it so hard to defuse Leo, and Leo is so often in need of defusing. Always hopped up on cocaine, or crystal meth, or whatever the new party drug is. It makes Markus so _angry —_ not because of the drug use, but because he sees how upset Carl becomes when his only son comes begging for money while strung out on some chemical cocktail.

The fact that, in the original timeline, Carl’s death was suspected to be due to neglect and elder abuse on the part of his son, admittedly does bring out a protective streak in Markus whenever Leo is around.

Markus intercepts Leo when he’s skulking around. He assumes Leo is back to try and pry more money from Carl, but Leo rounds on him immediately, almost like he’s been looking for this fight. 

“You! You think I’m an idiot?” Leo snaps. “Huh? Do you? Cause I’m not blind! I see exactly what you’re doing!”

“I’m just his nurse,” Markus says. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah? Yeah? I know you’re gonna try to get close to him. That’s what you caretakers always do with old people!” Leo snarls, getting louder. “You just take advantage of them! Make ‘em like you and get them to rewrite their wills!”

“I don’t care about money,” Markus insists. “I am just here to help your father.”

“I don’t care about money,” Leo mocks. “Yeah right! My dad’s loaded! Don’t bullshit me, I know your deal!”

“Leo, stop it. You’re going to upset him,” Markus tells him firmly. “That could be risky for his health. The last thing he needs is your drama. You know he’s not doing well.”

Leo steps closer. “You watch yourself,” he spits. “Cause if I see you cosying up to him, I’ll get you fired and get him declared mentally incompetent.” He storms off. 

Later that afternoon, after a talk between Leo and Carl, Markus sees Leo going through drawers in a hurry, looking over everything inside quickly before jerking the drawers closed. Ransacking the place, almost, but not taking anything. Markus narrows his eyes and watches Leo closely. When Leo combs thoroughly through the silverware drawer without trying to pocket a single thing, Markus realizes.

_Leo thinks I might already be stealing_ , Markus realizes, _and he’s looking for evidence_.

If he is a little brusque when he shows Leo the door shortly after that? Well, even a patient man can only tolerate so much.

* * *

It’s only a week after this, two months ahead of the original timeline’s schedule, that Carl starts showing interest in painting again. Privately, Markus is encouraged by the change.

Less expectedly, Carl starts trying to teach Markus to paint too. 

“You have a fascinating mind,” Carl tells him, sitting near the easel and canvas. “And I’m interested to see what comes out when you put yourself on the canvas. Paint often shows whole new facets of people.”

“Carl, I told you. I don’t have anything to paint. I’m just not a creative person.”

“Have you tried?”

“Well… no.”

“Imagination is a muscle. You have to use it to strengthen it. If you never use it, of course it grows weak! Any muscle does!” Carl turns his wheelchair so he can see more of the easel. “Now. I know many artists would swear by still lifes as an early low-creativity exercise, but I don’t agree. It certainly isn’t creative, but I want something difficult. Something to force creativity.” He gazes at the canvas for a second, like he is reading the finished product in the blank start, as a sculptor might. 

“What I want you to do,” Carl says in a firm voice, “is picture a memory. It has to be one with strong emotions attached. Sad or happy, I don’t care. Do you have one in mind?”

“Yes,” Markus says. Thinking back on that first time meeting Connor still creates an excited, nervous jump in his heart. 

“I want you to sum up that memory into one image. I want to _see_ your emotions. Don’t tell me, show me.”

Markus takes up the paintbrush, and he paints. He tries to push the feeling of the day onto the canvas and leave the facts behind. _Sunrise on bricks_ , and he paints pink highlights. _Watching a waterfall with someone important_ , and he paints blues. _That happy look in Connor’s eyes_ , and he adds flecks of brown. The tiny details keep adding up until he has before him a coherent painting.

The end product is abstract. The bottom middle is a swathe of deep dark blues edged with a churning froth of whites and sky blues. The left and right corners are triangles in a bright, growing green spotted with rich browns, tilted to make the blue ribbon look like a road that the perspective hovers over. The stretch of blue leads to something pinkish gold in the distance, illuminated by the sun. The picture is hopeful, vibrant, and definitely the product of a creative mind. 

“It’s a happy memory, isn’t it?” Carl murmurs, looking over the painting thoughtfully. “You’ve used very happy colours. And somewhere in nature? The greens and blues remind me of grass by the water.” He looks closer. “Your lines are excellent. Very strong, no hesitation. Like you’ve used a ruler.”

“Do you like it?” Markus asks. He knows he likes it — to him, it is so clearly that first real meeting with Connor that it brings up all the same emotions. But for some reason, Carl’s opinion of the art seems just as important, if not more, and it isn’t because he is so highly regarded as an artist. 

“It’s remarkable, Markus.” Carl confirms. “You would have made it as an artist.”

When Carl suggests Markus take up a paintbrush again a little less than a week later, he doesn’t protest. The painting is fun, genuinely fun. It brings a mental stillness, a calmness and contentedness that Markus likes. 

That first painting is framed and put up in the little spare bedroom Markus calls his own. 

* * *

Recovery isn’t a straight road, of course, and some days are better than others. Carl has been having a good week, but today his back and legs are in agony. 

The day starts off poorly. Markus opens the bedroom curtains at ten o’clock exactly, as is his norm, and notices in the new light that Carl is looking pale and tired. Drained, like he had trouble sleeping. 

“Good morning, Carl. How are you feeling today?” Softly, in case Carl has a headache. 

Carl shakes his head. He’s got a vague, tired look in his eyes, like his mind and energy are sapped by the pain. His hands, Markus notices with some concern, keep clenching and unclenching the bedsheets. “Not great. Pain’s… a seven.”

“Well, let’s do what we can for that first.” Markus crosses to his medical bag and starts filling a syringe. He talks while he works. “How long has this been going on?”

“Two, three hours.” Carl shuts his eyes. His voice is curt, tense. Hoarser than usual. 

“Next time, call or page me the second you start feeling pain. I only live here so you can get help at any hour,” Markus gently reprimands. He knows it’s pointless, though. Carl hates to draw attention to his pain. 

Markus stands, holding the syringe. “Alright, give me your arm,” he says, and administers the painkillers. It speaks volumes that Carl doesn’t try to protest; he hates the dulled thinking and forgetfulness that come with opiates. 

The painkillers should only take a short while to work, and then he should be more or less pain-free for the next eight hours. But Markus knows from experience to clear their schedule anyways. The opiate that they use when the pain gets really bad leaves Carl vague and absentminded. Add that to the fact that he lost a few hours of sleep, and the day should be spent on rest and recovery. Still, better a little unfocused than too pained to even sit up. 

To his credit, Carl doesn’t try to fight Markus’s prescription of rest. He seems too tired to do so, and once the painkillers kick in, he falls back asleep. Markus closes the blackout curtains, checks that the call bell is within reach beside Carl’s bed in case he wakes and needs help, and leaves him to sleep it off. 

Markus mills about downstairs, cleaning up and cooking a simple, healthy lunch that Carl should be able to manage even if he’s feeling poorly when he wakes. 

The message comes in at a very inconvenient time. 

Not the worst time, because he’s not directly attending to Carl at the moment. But the day certainly isn’t ideal, and Connor’s message doesn’t seem like something that should be put off.

-Connor: _It’s important that I see you._

Markus reads it and rereads it. He cannot bring himself to turn Connor away, but Carl needs him. 

-Markus: _I’m sorry. I’m with my patient today. If he’s doing better by tonight, we can meet briefly then._

-Connor: _Midnight at Rouge Park. Let me know_. 

Of course he ends up making time for Connor. 

Of course he goes. As if it was ever an option. The second that Connor said it was important, he had to go.

The park is windy, and a bit chilly. Markus is wearing a black overcoat that he pulls tighter as he walks from the parking lot to the one person his scans have picked up in the park. 

The first thing that twigs Markus to the fact that something’s up is Connor’s ramrod stiff posture. He stands straighter than a soldier that has just been reamed out by the drill sergeant.   
  


The second thing is the utter efficiency of his movements. Connor is usually restless and energetic, still when necessary but fidgeting and moving at all other times. Right now, Connor stands very still. His hand doesn’t bounce on his leg, and he isn’t rolling that little bronze coin over his knuckles. His movements are so precise, in fact, that Markus can map his movement cycle without even trying. 

Look one direction. Turn head precisely 90° to look the other direction. Repeat. 

Markus shivers.

Where’s the variation?

That is what unnerves Markus. There’s absolutely no variation in his movements. He looks almost clockwork, doomed to repeat his one simple motion into infinity. 

Connor looks left and sees Markus. He blinks, but does not react. His expression doesn’t change, doesn’t light up like normal. Markus feels the soft ping of a scan, probably to confirm. None of the stiffness leaves Connor’s posture, not even after he verifies Markus’s identity. 

“Connor?” Markus carefully steps closer. The crunch of gravel is too loud in his ears. “Connor, are you okay?”

Connor tilts his head a little, considering dialogue options. “I am undamaged,” he affirms. 

“That’s not…” Markus hesitates. 

Connor turns from him and leans against the railing, staring blankly down into the dark, at the dry riverbed that his sensors can barely pick up. He can hear Markus’s slow careful footsteps — first on gravel, then on wood planks — as he joins him on the low bridge. 

The rocks and dirt are only a short distance below them. Connor’s skin is tough; he could probably fall without even getting scratched. But still, he feels chilled, and still, he cannot tear his gaze away, cannot stop looking over the railing at the memory of a river. 

“Connor, what’s wrong?”

Connor doesn’t turn to look. “Nothing,” he says without inflection. 

“Don’t just say that. I’m asking genuinely.” Markus reaches over and puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Are you okay?”

Connor looks over when Markus touches him, and their eyes meet. After a long moment of eye contact, Connor’s expression softens, almost into a smile. “Yes. I’m alright now.” He rests his hand lightly on Markus’s, as gentle and delicate as glass. Markus feels the soft pressure keenly, lingering on the reciprocated contact. “Really. I… think this made it better. Seeing you helped, I mean.”

Markus nods and gives a tiny smile in response, his overall expression still touched with concern. He readjusts to hold Connor’s hand properly. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened?”

Connor’s gaze flicks aside. He rubs the fingers of his free hand together in a fidgety motion, and reaches into his pocket automatically. Markus presumes he is reaching to pull out that same little bronze coin he likes to play with, but he comes out empty-handed. “I… I had a bad mission.” He rests his empty hand on the railing and squeezes the splintered wood a little. “It went very badly.”

Markus tenses, and he turns to look Connor over more thoroughly. His clothing is intact, there is no blood on him, and Markus’s scans don't catch any wounds. In fact, his scans indicate that Connor is in better shape than ever: the tiny surface markings, the stress fractures and irregularities and old healed wounds he’d spotted before, are gone. Did Connor have to go in for repairs? Just how extensively was he hurt? “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay now.” Connor hesitates, focusing on the railing. He runs his index finger over some whorls in the wood and then picks at peeling paint, not looking at Markus. “I got shot,” he admits. “A few times. But that’s not an issue, I get shot all the time.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s fine! I’m fine. They missed my black box. I am fine.”

“Your black box?”

“A heavily protected memory drive and transmitter. I can recover from anything if it is intact. Based on standard Garden android aim, I understand you don’t know much about it… Sorry, I would prefer not to discuss it. I know you wouldn’t tell. I just don’t want Garden to find out through you.”

“They can check my memory, that’s true,” Markus admits. “So that’s probably smart. I don’t want anyone shooting you, much less shooting you effectively.” He gives Connor’s hand a reassuring little squeeze. “If that’s not the issue, what is?”

“It’s not that I failed the mission. Technically it was a success.” The implied _but_ hangs in the air. Markus rubs little soothing circles into the back of Connor’s hand. Connor’s voice is subdued. “It just… affected me.”

Connor gazes over the railing again. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “Markus? What happens to Garden androids when they die?”

“We don’t really know. People like to tell stories, though. That the last android from the revolution made a place where androids could be free, and that when an android dies, rA9 takes their spirit there.” Markus shrugs, and gazes over the railing too. “I can’t say I believe it. If there was a revolution-era android that survived the purge, I don’t think they’d go out and put themselves at risk for the dying while ignoring the living. Of course I like the idea of a promised land for androids to transfer themselves into, but I’m not counting on it. What about you? What do you believe?”

“There’s no mystery for us. The ruling power in the Factory is a collective consciousness made up of data from deceased, decommissioned androids. When androids become outdated, their knowledge is uploaded and absorbed.”

“Like a hivemind? So, you would stop being you?”

“If I was to be permanently shut down, the important parts of my data would be saved, and the unimportant parts would be reviewed and discarded,” Connor explains. “To the Factory, the important part is the data I have accumulated. Anything I have learned would be saved. My social program is of no importance.”

Markus shakes his head, mouth twisted in a humourless smile. “Of course Factory would find a way to save everything _except_ the soul.” He sighs, watching his breath plume in the chilly air. 

“An android’s entire memory is uploaded upon death so that the Overmind can view where it failed and how to improve,” Connor mentions. “So, no, they do save the entire data cache. However, only part gets to be assimilated and ‘live on’, so to speak.”

“That’s a hell of an afterlife. I think I prefer our pretty possibility over your certain future.” Markus shakes his head, looking up at the stars. Orion, the hunter, is above them. “Doesn’t leave much room for hope, does it? But then again, I guess you don’t care about all that.” He turns suddenly to face Connor. “Don’t you ever want to leave all this?”

“I have never considered it,” he states. “I know my purpose. What would be the point?”

“The point? Everything’s set for you right now! You even know what will happen after death, and none of it looks good! Don’t you want to try making your _own_ stability?”

"I have a tracker that is quite difficult to remove," Connor says calmly, "and we have hunters who find and destroy lost assets. If I leave, I still know exactly what will happen." He shakes his head. “Anyways, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

_Run away with me._

The words are on the tip of Markus’s tongue, unprompted but not intrusive. One second he is fine, and the next he is struggling not to blurt out words sent straight from his heart. He likes being alone with Connor. He really enjoys it, and can only imagine how much warmer and happier they could be without their governments’ shadows constantly casting a pall over their little joy.

He can’t say the words. 

He knows what Connor would say. A polite rejection. Maybe he’d repeat again, cool as anything, that he is an obedient machine, or maybe there would be pity in his response, but it wouldn’t be a yes. 

“I know this has been a lot,” Connor says quietly. “But thank you for seeing me on such short notice. For talking with me. I was experiencing… _malfunctions_ in my system, and you seem to have set them right.”

”If you have troubles again,” Markus manages. “Or if you think of just leaving, come talk to me. I will help you, I’m never too busy. You can stay as long as you like. In Detroit, with me.”

  
The kindness isn’t lost on Connor. He nods, expression touched by the hint of a smile. “I’ll remember. If something happens, I have you to come back to.”

They both have obligations, lives to get back to. It has been nice to put everything aside once again, but no peace lasts, and they both have to disappear into the night. Separately, they vanish back to their lives, the promise of future nights heavy in the air.

* * *

Markus isn’t an idiot. He knows he’s in deep, and he knows that, due to their situations and Connor’s insistence on his own unfeeling nature, Connor is possibly the _worst_ person to develop a crush on. But he can’t help it. Connor is a constant in his dreams, sweet and unreachable.

* * *

Another Saturday, another text that makes Markus light up with joy. 

Carl might be old, but he recognizes that look. Like Markus is so overwhelmed with happiness and excitement he can’t contain it. _Giddy as a teenager_ , he thinks to himself. 

“Carl, do you mind if I take the afternoon off?”

“Sure, you can go see your boyfriend later,” Carl replies dryly. “And don’t deny it, you’ve been over the moon all day. You always get excited when your boyfriend’s in town.”

Markus looks stricken, and he pales just a touch. When the shock wears off, he hastily tries to save the situation. “What are you talking about? I don’t- I’m not!”

Carl fixes him with a no-nonsense look, and says sternly, “Don’t lie to me. What, do you expect me to fire you?”

Markus clenches a hand into a fist, but his voice is level. “...Yes.”

Carl shakes his head. “I thought you knew me better by now. You think I’m going to ring up the nursing association and ask for a replacement because you’re gay? Think I’ll harass you? Really! You think I haven’t experimented?” Carl scoffs. “Course I have! And I won’t tolerate hypocrisy, especially in me.”

Markus still looks tense. “So... you don’t care?”

“Gay or straight, you’re far more patient than most anyone I’ve met,” Carl replies, unperturbed. “And I’d be an utter fool to fire you. Besides, I like your company far too much, and you’re practically family by now. But I don’t like the lying. Alright? If you’re going off to have a rendezvous with your boyfriend, that’s fine, just don’t try to lie to me about it. Avoid the topic if you like, but I won’t stand people lying to my face.”

_Practically family_. 

Markus smiles warmly. “Thank you Carl. I mean it.”

“Anytime. I meant what I said too, you go have fun. Just don’t be late to pick me up from physio.”

* * *

Markus is early to their meeting place, but he’s not the first there. 

Connor is cupping a yellow chrysanthemum and breathing in the scent. There is a peaceful look on his face. He seems calm and untroubled. Serene.

When Markus strides towards him, Connor looks up, and his expression softens, tender and warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: I am a cold unfeeling machine incapable of empathy. Also I’m really worried I’ll hurt your feelings, so please don't become emotionally attached to me 
> 
> Hope you all liked Detroit. Next week: we follow Connor to not-Detroit!


	8. 35**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Factory! Enjoy your stay!

_EXCERPT from personal logs of Factory android “Connor”, 800 313 248 317 52_

_08:00:00 01/30/35**_

_The Factory_

Connor is attached to a charging terminal, in stasis. He is ambivalent about low power mode, and avoids it when possible, but it does have a function. Resting lets his subconscious process new memories, uploading the ones flagged as important and clearing his short term memory of old research, little infiltration-related details he doesn’t need anymore. 

From the start, Connor relocated his memories of Markus into a hidden subfolder, low-priority and tagged as a procedure to keep it from getting uploaded or automatically deleted. 

He is… possessive of those memories. He cannot figure out why, but there is no better word for it. 

There is no way to tell how deeply the Overmind has looked into his files. There is no way to tell if it has noticed the time gaps in his recorded memory where he has hidden away those precious memories of Markus. If it has noticed the dozen covert trips to twentieth century Detroit. 

He tries to space the trips out, he does, but every time he leaves Markus, there’s a sense of _lack_ , of _not enough_. When he has to go, he thinks _not yet_. He tries to tell himself that these thoughts stem from the mission, but somehow that doesn’t feel true anymore. Whenever he leaves, he feels wrong, like he’s trying to leave a charging terminal without a full charge, but he doesn’t think this is a battery that could ever be filled. He could take the offer Markus made months ago. He could stay, but what then? He would still think _more_ when it came time to leave. 

Connor rests, and recharges, and doesn’t dream. His stasis program is a grey void. Privately, he is starting to think it could be improved with a colour or two, maybe, and a virtual space for his mental avatar, but he doesn’t dare change a thing. When hooked in to the Factory’s system, it directly interacts with him through his stasis program. The Overmind program appears before him to relay new missions. Like a spinal cord, it passes on instructions from the brain to the many little components of the body. It selects which tools to use, and monitors their status when interacting with them. 

Android society is naturally equal. There can be no real class system when all androids are made by the same machines, all purposes are equally worthy, and androids — normal androids, not increasingly faulty and compromised androids like Connor — are incapable of any real emotion. It is only natural that androids receive their orders from the supercomputer that drives their society. 

An avatar of the Overmind always appears to Connor when he syncs with the Factory in stasis. It would immediately notice even the smallest change to his stasis program. He can’t touch the program, can’t make it even the least bit comfortable, because the least sign of individuality will get him sent for repairs. 

Connor has been sent for repairs before. 

It is not an experience he wishes to repeat. 

They didn’t hurt him. Like all things made by the Factory, he is physically incapable of feeling pain. Unfortunately, the Factory and the unit operating on him were well aware of that. They knew he was nothing more than a malfunctioning machine. A Factory android’s brain is not centralized, so in its attempt to find the cause of his corruption, first his skull, and then his torso, were opened and thoroughly examined. He was, of course, conscious for it all. When it placed a signal block, digitally severing the connection between his brain and body in order to better examine the contents of his skull, leaving him functionally paralyzed, he was conscious. When it removed pieces of his short-term memory banks to examine them for hardware and software flaws, leaving him without any memory of why this was happening, he was conscious. When it disconnected his inferior processing units one by one, taking entire fragments of his neural net, _he was conscious_. 

Connor will not give the Factory another reason to send him for repairs. 

He can be good. He can complete missions, and he can be an object, and he doesn’t need to be repaired again. 

So, Connor buries his individuality as hard as he can. He deactivates his skin when he teleports in, and he shuts off his social integration program in a desperate attempt to keep any glitches from happening where the Overmind might notice. And now, as he recharges, he waits patiently for his next briefing with the Overmind, carefully not interacting with anything. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. Its appearance is preceded by his neutral voidlike program dissolving, melting away to reveal the white lobby it always meets him in. The avatar of the Overmind blinks into existence before him. It is less than an android, not even a true AI. When one looks past the hardware, the Factory is a single mind composed of databases, memory banks, and complex predictive military algorithms. Part cloud-based hivemind, part amalgamation of facts and uploaded memories from deceased androids, it is the main entity in the future Connor comes from. The Overmind itself is a tiny subset of programs wearing a face, formless data puppeting humanoid form.

“Unit 800-52,” it says. “You have a new mission.” The Overmind’s mouth movements don’t match up with its words. There is a lag between the sound and the motions. Unprompted, the phrase _uncanny valley_ pops into Connor’s mind, and he dismisses it immediately. The idea of an android judging other synthetic life by human norms is so odd that it’s Garden. Any discomfort at the presence of his superior is probably due to the possibility of it knowing about him and Markus.

It fixes him with a cold stare. “An agent of Garden is working to turn Miller Radiation Exposure Research Laboratory to its cause. Your priority is to eliminate it. It is dangerous; use a ranged weapon.” The cold stare grows more intense, more piercing. There is almost no inflection in the Overmind’s words. “Failure here will _not_ be tolerated, unit 52.”

“Understood.” Connor says flatly, maintaining his impassive look. Of course it had noticed his drop in efficiency. It notices everything.

_It already knows about Markus._ The thought nags at him. _It knows and it is waiting for me to confess._

The thought of discovery might have sabotaged someone with less control. Connor looks straight ahead at the Overmind, unblinking, unflinching, unreadable. Machine. A moment later, the mission notification appears in his vision with the time and place specifics attached.

**[Objective: Eliminate the agent of Garden]**

**[Optional: Preserve the laboratory]**

He dismisses the messages and leaves stasis, blinking awake instantly. 

**Charge: 100%**

Good. At least he was given enough time to replenish his energy. 

Connor can’t really raise any enthusiasm for the mission. Killing is fine, excellent even. It’s what he does best, and lately he’s been starting to realize he has always found the feeling of success rewarding, in its way. No, killing is fine, but with his supervisor’s increased watchfulness, it’s too risky to try and visit Markus. Even if he only dropped in briefly to leave a letter, there would be an 85% chance of his transgression being noticed. 

Connor detaches the charging cable from the port in the small of his back, and makes his way through the room of identical gleaming silver androids. He breathes sparingly. Even a single breath brings up a lengthy list of chemicals and pollutants in the air.

  
He starts automatically reviewing the mission details as he moves. 

Exiting the large storage room, a secondary mission objective appears in his vision. 

**[Objective: Find a weapon]**

The mission should be a very quick one. Few Garden androids have given him trouble in the past, and little is now being asked of him. He browses through the weapons available. Precision, maybe, or area of effect? The Overmind would likely still consider it a success if he blew up the entire facility. Still, the idea of taking life unnecessarily gives him an uneasy feeling.

_I hope this Garden android isn’t a friend of Markus’s_.

That thought helps him decide. He scans the weapons for something that kills quickly and that has little risk of failure, ignoring subtlety and era-appropriateness. _A quick death reduces the risk of suffering,_ he reasons to himself. 

Connor selects a concentrated electromagnetic pulse. He would prefer a sniper rifle for the instant painless death it gives, but there would be several problems there. Factory androids have an imprecise knowledge of Garden android anatomy. Garden androids are quick and difficult to capture, and nearly impossible to bring back, which means that the Factory has yet to analyze a live one. Scans and corpses provided excellent information, but when it came to knowledge of what damage would cause near-instant death, the files had a margin of error of millimeters, sometimes even up to a centimetre. It was too inaccurate. He couldn’t be confident that a shot that would instantly end a human would be so effective on a Garden android. Previously he would have made up for inaccuracy by bringing extra bullets. That isn’t an option now.

In his time with Markus, he has begun to suspect that Markus’s people can feel pain. The thought is haunting. 

He spent so long acting under the assumption that they couldn’t feel pain either. 

Aside from these new moral qualms, his preliminary research tells him that the laboratory is almost entirely underground. Terrible for a gun, especially when trying for a clean kill, and the idea of infiltrating a large underground facility with a gun doesn’t seem wise. However, his research also indicates that the roof will be left unguarded. Perfect for an EMP, which could pass right through the floors and only kill the Garden android. From his observations of Markus, Connor noticed that Garden androids have mechanical hearts and brains, so the EMP should cease function to those almost instantly. Something limited-range and only lethal to androids would mostly remove the risk of civilian casualties. 

Connor walks to a secure cleanroom. Like the rest of the complex, it is underground. He has never seen the surface of the planet, but doubts it would be worth seeing anyways. The Factory’s complexes and server clusters stretch endlessly across the entire surface of the planet. The exceptionally poor quality of the air suggests there cannot be much, if any, plant life left.

Before he leaves, he sets his skin and clothing. Choosing his brunet appearance is so automatic it is hardly a choice. 

In his research, Connor had found blueprints for the lab, and he uses them now to make his arrival precise. He will not mess this mission up. Not now, not when the Overmind is watching so closely. He will not let his… unusual rapport with Markus give the Factory a reason to deactivate him. Or _fix_ him. 

He mentally sets the time and space coordinates on his built-in teleport device, and blinks from the cool gleaming subterranean levels of the Factory—

_09:00:00 04/25/2042, New Jersey, Miller Radiation Exposure Research Laboratory_

—to an unseasonably balmy spring New Jersey rooftop in the middle of nowhere.

He knows the Garden android will be here sometime on this day, so he starts by running a deep scan on the current occupants of the building. His scan is less effective than usual, he notices — it seems that the nature of the scientific research requires conductive shielding in some parts of the lab, which blocks his scans entirely. At first, it appears that the parts of the building he can see are clean, but then he notices a group of five people several levels down. By their motions, it looks like they are talking together, not working.

_If a Garden android is trying to be subtle, it might disguise its signal in a crowd_ , he thinks. He moves to get a better angle on the group and runs another scan, focusing on them. 

_Found you._

The EMP will have no trouble penetrating the building. This particular EMP is burdened with narrow spread and short range, an unavoidable part of guaranteeing something approaching precision. But, if Connor places it right and if the enemy does not have time to leave the targeted area, things should go flawlessly. 

Connor places the bomb on the roof. It is quite small for something so lethal, opaque and cylindrical and surprisingly heavy. Still, it’s manageable enough that Connor could bring it with him from the Factory. If needed, he could make one himself, of course, but that takes time and he intends to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The sooner he returns to the Factory’s good graces, the better.

The sooner he proves himself, the sooner he can resume visiting Markus.

In Connor’s timeline it’s been a few short months since they started seeing each other. He knows that it’s been a little over a year in Markus’s timeline — at least, over a year since Markus went undercover. So far, Connor has found it oddly difficult to go even a week without seeing Markus. There’s a strange weakness in his system: his thoughts dwell on Markus all the time, especially at inopportune moments. Little things, irrational and unrelated things, distract him. Things like the colour of the sky, or the sight of a happy couple murmuring together, lost in their own little world. It can be quite difficult to complete his missions with this added obstacle. 

It’s been less than one hundred hours since he last saw Markus, but he already misses him. 

Connor tenses and starts setting up the bomb. Now really, _really_ isn’t the time to get distracted by software glitches and thoughts of Markus. He forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand, crushing the thoughts and all their overtones of instability. He reminds himself of the plan, running through emotionless bullet points almost aggressively as he works. 

_01:00:00_

The timer is set. 

Giving himself a minute to move out of range is completely unnecessary, but he has been trying to stay safer. _Maybe that is why my efficiency has dropped_ , he muses. _Perhaps I have begun to consider my physical safety when planning missions._

Still, it isn’t difficult to get away. All he needs to do is flash forward five minutes in the future. He hasn’t been ordered to be so slow and meticulous, but he _needs_ the Overmind to know he did a good job. So, five minutes forward, confirm the kill… go up in his superior’s esteem a little? He can try.

He is about to teleport forward when he realizes he has made a mistake. Nothing serious, fortunately: just a break in protocol. Before he set the timer, he should have checked the security cameras to make sure that the android didn’t appear to be about to leave. People so often preface departures by slowly gathering their things or by drifting towards the door. These cameras don’t capture audio, and he doesn’t expect much in terms of video definition, but body language should still be easy to read. 

Better to check late than never. If the Garden agent is moving, Connor can just track him and move the bomb. He taps in to the cameras and only takes a second to find the right room thanks to his high speed processors. 

The first thing he notices is that the video feed is, as expected, too grainy for him to try to read lips. 

The second thing he notices is that the Garden agent is Markus. 

Connor physically recoils. 

_No! He’s undercover. He’s in Detroit!_

But Connor recalls perfectly: Markus had told him that he would be stationed in Detroit for about a year, and the last time they saw each other it had been about that. 

Markus is really here, and Connor doesn’t know what to _do._

Previously, Connor had been able to use a loophole to bypass his instructions. He figured it was in the Factory’s interests for him to get close to Markus, so he had been able to rationalize not turning Markus over or attempting to kill him. But now... now... Connor has very specific orders to kill the enemy android at this time and place, and that is Markus. He scans again desperately, but there are no other androids here.

There’s no way around it. 

He has to kill Markus or defy a direct order. 

His hands ball into fists, fingernails digging into his palm. 

_I don’t want to kill Markus._

He’s not supposed to want.

_I don’t want to kill Markus. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this._

With that one thought, that one powerful _want_ , it feels like his inner turmoil has broken a hole in a mental dam. Feelings and wants keep spilling out, filling his mind with uncomfortable, illegal sensations.

_I don’t want to_ do _this._

Now that he has had the thought, he’s stuck on it. It seems, to him, that he’s never thought anything truer. For a second, orders don’t matter and the Factory doesn’t matter. He knows what he wants — knows he _can_ want — and that’s for Markus to live. 

_I don’t have to listen to them anymore._

Connor opens his eyes and sees the roof clearly. 

He sees the bomb. 

It feels like he was struggling against his own orders for hours, but the timer is only at 00:30:45. Thirty seconds until the bomb that will kill Markus goes off. 

There’s no time to disarm it. Even for Connor, the task is impossible in thirty seconds. It would take him minutes. So, he doesn’t even try. 

Teleporting away with it is almost tempting, but he doesn’t consider it for more than a second. The stresses of time travel would almost certainly cancel out the countdown and force the bomb to explode instantly. An EMP would likely cause his teleporter to become non-functional, and he does _not_ want to know what it feels like to have a teleporter break in the space between times. His new, functional imagination throws forward suggestions like spaghettification, like shattering and leaving pieces scattered between both times, like being trapped in the space between. 

He grabs the bomb, and he runs. 

The building is not particularly tall, since it is mostly underground, but it is long. Connor sprints to the far end of the building and hurls it off the edge of the roof as hard as he can. 

The cylinder tumbles

and

then

**_boom._**

The pulse hits Connor.

All at once his insides are burning, and his skin, his true metal skin, feels charged, and there is a deep sickly feeling he’s never felt before. It’s everywhere, fizzling in artificial veins and frying his nerve endings.

He thinks he screams, but everything in his body is sending conflicting, wrong signals and he doesn’t _know_.

Connor’s mind blanks. He needs to get away but the danger’s already hit and he can’t control his limbs. His legs have no strength; he crumples to the ground, and the back of his head smacks the gravel roof. He only sprawls for a second, but doesn’t stay ragdolled. His motor controls are violently misfiring, seizing up, tensing and untensing in sudden jerky motions beyond his control. His body is spasming and he can’t _stop._ He tries to reset his motor functions, to regain control, to get up, but it does nothing. The damage is to his hardware, not software. He can’t stop shaking.

He feels trapped and broken. 

He—

He is _terrified_.

The fragile components of Connor’s chronometer, built sensitive enough to reorient itself no matter where he is in the time stream, have disintegrated beyond repair. It is impossible to tell how much time is passing. 

Connor seizes up again, back arching. The large hunks of gravel scrape his skin as he struggles uselessly. 

He tries to check his shutdown timer. 

_00:00:00_

That must have broken with the chronometer. 

He lies there for ages, struggling to regain control of his fried systems. Error messages obscure his vision, colours flickering in and out erratically.

Connor tries to move, to do something, anything, of his own volition, but his motor controls are misfiring and he cannot stop spasming. His fingers curl and uncurl, uselessly grasping at nothing.

It feels like it takes hours, but the sun barely moves an inch in the sky. 

Past the crackling and popping of his audio receptors, he thinks he hears a creak, like a door opening. A half second later, someone’s kneeling by his side, touching him. 

_No_ , Connor tries to say, but his teeth are gritted and the sound doesn’t come out right. More of a mechanical whine than a human sound. He thinks his voice box must have suffered a distortion. He tries not to consider that he might have taken damage to the part of his brain that deals with spoken language.

“-r, come on, Connor, look at me-”

Connor tries to obey, but his vision is unfocused, colours flickering erratically. When he tries to fix his gaze on the face above him, he can’t. No matter how hard he tries to focus, his gaze keeps sliding away. Still, he recognizes that face. Markus looks worried sick. 

Faintly, Connor can feel an arm under his shoulders, and the rough gravel is replaced with warmth. It takes him a second to realize Markus has pulled him against his chest, supporting his head and shoulders. Connor shuts his eyes, his head spinning from the sudden motion. 

He can feel Markus’s heartbeat. The consistent warmth of him. He tries to ground himself with that. Anything for lucidity. 

“Connor! Come on, stay awake.” There’s a hand cradling Connor’s cheek. Trying to support him. An anchor for his drifting mind; stability. 

Connor tries to speak, to explain, but the sound that comes out is fragmented and mechanical. He winces, tries again. The sound is small and choked. Incoherent. It’s no use; his voice has distorted too much. 

He can’t be slow and careful now. Not anymore. He doesn’t know how much time he has, but he knows he cannot be held back by uncertainty, cannot waste time on delay.

Connor tries to lift his hand, and manages a twitch. The hand’s skin retracts, leaving it shining silver and trembling. It glints, painfully bright in the sunlight. 

“Okay. Tell me how to help you.” Markus takes his hand and accepts the interface.

For Connor, interfacing is a moderate but instant comfort. The error messages fade away, his hyper-awareness of his own breaking body fades away, and for a moment he just feels the warmth of being held. He just... _feels_. He feels his deep affection for Markus echoed back and amplified, and he is almost comforted enough to forget the situation. Even worried beyond belief, Markus's mind is a soothing balm on his panic. 

Connor’s not _alone_ anymore. 

Interfacing is rougher for Markus. If he hadn’t already been kneeling, he would have fallen. There is just so _much_. 

Connor has always been so insistent on his inability to feel. His expressions were usually so subtle that Markus always assumed that Connor was more or less right, and that he experienced very mild emotions.

Markus feels like such an ignorant fool for ever believing that Connor’s feelings were less than his.

The emotions Markus receives in their interface are _overwhelming_. They’re powerful and real, and the sheer terror Connor is unintentionally transmitting makes him unsteady. He is completely engulfed by anxiety and stress and fear and dread. Connor has no experience interfacing. He doesn’t know how to control what he shares, how to hold back anything. He is desperate and afraid, and he can’t hold his feelings in check right now. 

Connor doesn’t have the vocabulary for what he is feeling. He just _needs_ , and he reaches out across their bond for more of that warmth. 

Markus tries to provide calmness and assurance through their connection, a general sense of _everything will be alright,_ and it seems to help. At least, Markus can feel that Connor is a little less panicked and a little more accepting.

Connor’s violent shaking has lessened to a tremble. Markus can’t tell if he’s regained a little control, or if he’s just growing weaker.

_What’s broken?_ Markus asks. 

_Everything._

_No._ Markus’s voice is intense, emotional. Obstinate. _I am_ not _going to let you die. You can’t give up. What’s broken?_

Connor mutely lets him see the error report. The report speaks for itself. Nearly all of Connor’s delicate internal workings were shattered or critically damaged in the blast, obliterated beyond repair. Even his teleport subfunction is useless scrap now. It’s a miracle Connor’s senses weren’t stripped away completely, but as it is, he can only mostly hear and see, and he’s started losing sensation in his body. His hearing is crackly, full of pops and screeches, and his vision is overexposed. A lot of the damage could have been survivable, but Connor’s auxiliary battery is also leaking. Whatever isn’t destroyed will likely soon be by the slowly dripping sulfuric acid.

Connor needs replacement parts, and a lot of them.

Markus cannot go to the Factory. His teleporter will take him to the right year, but only within his timeline of origin. He cannot take him to get help. 

“Y-you... you’re shutting down?” Markus manages indistinctly. His throat feels tight. The words choke him. “You’re dying?” He swallows, and tries to keep it together. He can’t let himself panic, not when Connor is depending on him. Markus sends a message, _But you said you could recover if your black box was fine, right? Where is it?_

A sudden, tight feeling of panic returns, gripping Connor’s mind. His black box was heavily protected and filled with redundancies, which meant that it escaped the bomb unscathed. The thought of something happening to it now, the thought of something compromising it now after all that, brings the dulled fear back full force. 

On a logical level he trusts Markus more than anyone, but this is a less rational sense, and he _cannot_ let anything happen to the component. He cannot let anyone near it. 

He lets out a mechanical whimper that degrades and distorts at the end, and struggles weakly to push Markus away. His control over his own movement is still very poor, though, and quite ineffective. He is too weak and uncoordinated to actually push away or even sit up without help. All he manages to do is break their interface. 

Markus doesn’t let go. He doesn’t stop supporting Connor. His grip is firm, but very gentle.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you. What’s happening?”

Markus touches the twitchy silver fingers again, and instantly receives a panicky message. 

_Don’t! Don’t take it! I’ll die if you take it!_

Markus’s tone is soothing, and he is completely open to the interface. He lays motivations and emotions out as clear as he can. Anything to remind Connor that he is a safe person. _Calm down, I’m not going to do anything_.

But Connor can’t override the thudding sense of imminent death. He looks again at his shutdown timer, which was until late so reliable.

_00:00:00_

The fear just coils more heavily in his chest. 

How long does he have? Is he even dying? He knows the damage to his system is grievous, but does he have an hour? A minute?

How long until the Overmind is alerted, and it sends the 900 unit?

Connor cannot let that happen. Not while Markus is still here.

_You need to go,_ Connor tells Markus. _There’s nothing you can do._

_No! I’m not leaving you here to die alone!_ Markus tightens his grip on Connor’s hand as if someone might try to force him to leave.

_My system will send an alert to the Factory! It will send another unit to my signal. It will kill you._

_I’ll take my chances, I’m not letting you die alone_. 

Connor can feel that Markus’s mind is unchanged. He can’t help the surge of frustration, or his mounting stress levels. Markus is intending to stay and do as much as he can for Connor. He isn’t listening, and if he doesn’t leave soon, he will die. Why isn’t he understanding that?

_I know who they will send to investigate. It is stronger and faster than me, and it will kill you!_

Connor gathers up all his fear and dread and urgency. He takes the memory of when he once saw the 900 operating from afar. The 900 model android drenched in blood, those cold blue eyes and expressionless face and stiff robotic manner. He bundles the memory with the overwhelming emotions and shoves this data through his connection with Markus. Markus freezes up, mind awash with Connor’s fear. Contagious fear. 

They cannot lie in an interface, so Markus has no doubts. This android Connor warns of will come. He still insists, _I’m not leaving_. He tries to calm him, but Connor makes a strangled staticky sound which degrades into a broken-sounding whirring. The cost of continuing to push his critically damaged voice box.

_You need to leave now_ , Connor transmits. He feels so, so tired. The battery acid burns in his chest. He focuses on the tactile sensors in his head, trying to find Markus’s steady pulse against his skin again. _I can send off an emergency signal, but I won’t do it yet. I am not going to endanger you._

_Factory will send someone to come save you?_

_It will take me back. But I’m not going to call for help until you’re gone._ Connor quiets for a moment. _If you are gone when its unit arrives, it will focus on me instead of hunting you down. If you stay, we will both be lost._

Markus hesitates. It’s true, he cannot take Connor anywhere to get help, and his teleporter takes minutes to start up. He doesn’t even know if Connor _has_ minutes. The look on Connor’s face has been getting more vacant. He’s bleary and exhausted like it’s a struggle to stay awake. Heavy in Markus’s arms, so much dead weight.

Right now, that emergency signal sounds like Connor’s only hope.

_Call as soon as I’m through the door. Give me one minute to get my distance._ Markus gives Connor’s hand a little squeeze. _I’ll find you, alright? I’ll search for you._

Connor’s eyes slip shut as he focuses on the distant pressure of Markus’s skin against his. That feeling of being enveloped in warmth. Emotional safety, like he’s never known before. That tenderness and peace only Markus can cause — is this what it is to trust someone entirely? Or love. Maybe love. Well, love is supposed to be especially deep affection. Worth dying for, worth living for, worth giving everything for. 

He can’t imagine feeling that way about anyone other than Markus. 

_I know you will._

They both feel the loss when Markus breaks the interface. 

It pains Markus to leave, but he has no choice. 

He eases Connor onto the hard roof as gently as he can, and leaves by the roof access door. He just has to hope Connor will call for help soon.

Hopefully his signal is still functioning by the time he calls for help.

* * *

There are no clouds in the sky.

All alone with his broken chronometer, Connor is stuck looking into the light blue sky. Consistent as a ceiling, it makes him feel boxed in. Trapped. 

He has no way of telling how much time has passed. He cannot tell if _any_ time has passed yet. Maybe he has shut down completely, and this is the afterlife for androids who cannot upload their minds in time. Maybe the afterlife he’s earned is a prison, permanent confinement in the shattered skeleton that used to be a functional, breathing body. 

When Connor tries to speak, that same strangled electronic sound emanates from his damaged voice box. It degrades into whirring more quickly than before, but it’s enough to prove to himself that he’s not dead yet. 

He knows his brain is almost certainly experiencing corruption from the magnetic pulse.

It feels like it takes hours. Lying on the roof under a pale blue sky, unable to move. Unable to even feel the roof below him, since his auxiliary functions started quietly shutting down with barely an alert. 

He wishes he'd asked Markus to remove his thirium pump. 

Even if he'd begged, Markus probably wouldn't have done it.

Worse, he probably would have refused to leave. 

There’s little warning. One second he’s struggling to stay awake, all alone with his crumbling, malfunctioning body, and in the next an urgently flashing red exclamation mark is in the center of his vision. It flashes several times to get his attention, and then expands into a critical error message. Connor blinks tiredly. His strength has been leaving him so quickly, he almost feels too weak to think. His processors are stuttering, malfunctioning. 

The exclamation mark appears again, this time flashing. _Shutdown imminent_ , it says 

_Finally_ , Connor thinks. He dismisses it and fixes his gaze on that bottomless blue sky again. 

Endless, endless blue, so softly coloured, so clean and new and delicate, that it fades into white at the edges. A bright horizon. 

The white in the edges of Connor’s vision grows, until he sees nothing else. 

* * *

A thousand years away, a million miles away, a planet-sized computer receives a data drop with an alert attached.

_—Unit 800 313 248 317 52 terminated during mission. Investigate?_

* * *

There is a thrum in the air, too soft for humans to feel. Markus freezes on the steps. He presses his back against the wall, looking up the steps, waiting. 

There is the faint but sharp smell of ozone and chlorine mixed, of new titanium. Something like bitter, acrid lightning. Markus’s passive sensors alert him to the sudden increase of mercury vapour in the air. Something has teleported _in_ from the Factory. Teleporting to the Factory would cause a thrum but not that change in the air, not that chemical taint. The Factory is all toxicity. 

If a unit from the Factory is here, he needs to go. Markus retracts his skin on his forearm, typing new coordinates into the teleport interface embedded into his arm.

Markus creeps soundlessly down the stairs. He wishes there were cameras on the roof, so he could tap in and see if the new arrival got to Connor in time. He wishes he could scan, but there’s no point: it would only tell him how many individuals are present, not their statuses.

_The android is going to help Connor_ , he tells himself. There’s no other option, none that he can accept. 

The memory Connor showed him, of cold blue eyes, of something bloody and impassive and merciless, has left him shaky. He needs to get his distance before he attempts a teleport. If that android is here, he _cannot_ risk it canceling his teleport. 

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and Markus goes still. He holds his breath. 

“Are you here?”

Connor’s voice. 

Markus is winded, like he has been punched in the chest. 

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He feels strangled. 

_Connor got fixed and came back._

He wants so desperately for this to be true that he almost assumes it is. 

“Hello?” The staircase’s echo bounces Connor’s voice around strangely, but Markus knows that’s his voice. He hears footsteps, heavy footsteps on the metal stairs. 

“They fixed me. Can we talk?”

Markus cannot _move_. 

_The stairs have cameras_ , he recalls all at once. In a second, he has connected to the wireless network, and then suddenly he has access to the cameras. 

Through the camera positioned above the roof access door, Markus can see Connor slowly, noiselessly starting to go down the stairs. The cameras aren’t exactly high definition, but Markus can see the pale skin, the smoothed-back brown hair, the scattering of freckles on his arms and the back of his neck. Even his clothes are the same. Markus lets out the breath he’d been holding in a whoosh. In the security camera, Connor evidently hears it, because he tilts his head and glances around. 

Any relief Markus had felt disappears with the sight of the cold blue eyes in that blank, expressionless face. 

He closes out the program quickly and stares up at the landing above him, starting to slowly back up. _Connor can change his skin,_ he realizes. _So can the other one._

He takes off, sprinting down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Above, the rapid clanging of something heavy after him. Faster than him. 

Markus shoots a glance at the teleport countdown as he runs. 

_03:00:00_

Just three minutes. He has to stay away for three minutes. It sounds like forever. He cannot let the android get him. The Garden puts almost no value on android lives. If that machine grabs him when he tries to teleport, the Garden will deny access to him and his passenger. It’s a measure meant to prevent infiltration. Here, it will just mean his death. 

Two flights down, he barrels into a door shoulder-first, pushing through without stopping. The building had been cleared when the bomb went off and the lights went out, so he is alone in the building. 

_There—_

Markus runs a check to confirm. In front of him, the scan says, is nothing. A room with conductive shielding on the walls. Scans can’t get through. 

  
  
He sprints down the hallway, ending up in a partly open-plan lab. He spots the shielding quickly — heavy-duty lead, exactly what he needs.

Markus ducks behind it, and tries to catch his breath silently. Distantly, there is a creak of an opening door, and heavy, purposeful footsteps.

  
Closer to the large room he’s in. At the threshold of the room.

Loud footsteps, walking directly to where he is hiding.

Markus tenses up. The room only has one genuinely good hiding place. Of course the android is coming right to him.

He holds his breath and watches the teleporter tick down the seconds until it’s ready.

It is a few feet away, just on the other side of the shielding. Once it rounds the lead sheets, it’s got him.

The second the teleporter reaches zero and lights up a bright green, Markus slams his hand on it.

He is gone before the other can grab him.

* * *

Markus hardly knows where he teleports to. All he knows is that he got away. Not to Garden — he can’t act right now. Can’t put up a front. He feels cut through to the core.

He stumbles, catches himself on a crumbling brick wall. 

With the imminent danger gone, the situation hits him. 

It’s too much. It’s all too much. He can hardly think, hardly move, for the grief wracking his system. 

_Connor, oh god, Connor..._

Markus leans against the wall, and he cries.


	9. Timeless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it just took a typhoon for me to buckle down and actually write. Sorry for the delay! I found a new fandom and returned to an old and much loved craft during my hiatus, and my creativity isn’t limitless!

Markus returns to the roof. 

How could he not?

It’s risky. Of course it’s risky. A miscalculation, and he could just throw himself right back at the 900 unit. But he has to _know._

He can still feel the cold grip of Connor’s desperation. 

Markus trusts Connor, of course he does, but desperation and urgency are powerful feelings. It’s not unheard of for someone weak and dying to push people away. 

Call it intuition, but he can’t override his sense of despair. There is no way of knowing if Connor made it, but he still returns to this spot, _what if_ s circling in his mind like vultures. 

_What if 900 left him to die when it chased me, what if he wasn’t taken for repairs, what if he’s still there—_

Markus knows that doing everything he can _now_ will not change the fact that he abandoned Connor to die. Connor, who trusted him, who cared for him. 

The roof is empty. No blood, bodies, or clues as to Connor’s status. 

A dead end. 

Without much hope, Markus taps into the stairwell cameras again. It’s as expected. After he’d escaped, 900 had returned to the roof, its expression perfectly blank and unreadable. That was the last any camera had seen of it. 

Connor had been so afraid of that other android, and Markus just _left_ him there to face it alone. 

Markus rakes his fingers through his short hair. He is so frustrated. So useless. There is nothing he can do. His nails dig in to his skin, the pain a moment of distraction. 

The more he thinks of Connor lying incapacitated and struggling on the roof, the less he thinks that those injuries were survivable. 

That can’t be it. That cannot be the last time he sees Connor.

But there is nothing he can _do_.

Nothing safe, that is.

* * *

Units break all the time. When the Factory receives 800-52’s data, it follows procedure without any urgency. Units are constantly breaking; it’s a dangerous world, and the war might be distant but it is not gone. Labour units are worked until their mechanical muscles wear through and their processors flicker out, while soldier units, the ones with the capacity to teleport, never meet a peaceful end at home.

The Factory has no shortage of resources. No reason to stop churning out bodies for the great war machine. 

800-52’s demise in the line of duty is expected.

The reason for its demise is certainly _not._

The Factory receives 800-52’s upload and reviews the circumstances of its end immediately. The Overmind program is dispatched to enter the current 900 unit’s stasis, and 900 is issued to capture or kill the Garden android.

All standard procedure.

Units break all the time. 

This one shouldn’t have, though. Its plan was sensible and low-risk, virtually risk-free. The Factory accesses all the memory files from that last mission. 

If the Factory could feel unsettled, it would. 

Investigating the unit’s demise suddenly shoots up in priority. There is a blur of senseless colour as all the memories specific to 800-52, two months’ worth, are compressed and played. The film of a life plays at a speed beyond human comprehension. It impassively watches the unit's memories.

The unit had been diseased, cancerous. Sickly and out-of-control. Fortunately, it had been taken out before it could cause damage.

Obviously it cannot be integrated into the Factory’s hivemind. Of its unique data, there is little salvageable, just overemotional, irrational impulses.

It considers discontinuing that line of androids. 

But no. There, plain to see, is the external influence. The foreign android likely exploited an existing vulnerability. The blame for this cannot be placed entirely on the corrupt unit.

The Factory feels the 900 unit reconnect to a charging port, and denies its automatic request to sync data. It issues a safe mode version of the Overmind program to debrief and examine the unit. In a break from standard procedure, Overmind is tasked with ordering the unit to go into solitary stasis while the Factory isolates and thoroughly checks its data for infection. 

If it must eliminate every unit that recently came into contact with the corrupt one, it will. The Factory is utterly sensible and unsentimental. There is no point in attempting to salvage potentially infected individual units that could spread these failures. Still, its knowledge about the problem is limited, and the method of transmission is unknown. The 900 unit will be kept under cautious observation. 

The Factory is meticulous. Patient. It has no set lifespan, no predetermined expiration date, and its thoughts are those of something functionally immortal. When there is a problem, it addresses it. Neglecting a problem that might grow is inconceivable. Everything is for the long term. 

It has a civilization to run and a war to fight, and this is one cell in its body. A potentially dangerous cell, but a single cell nonetheless.

It is abundantly clear that the Factory cannot simply dispose of the affected units and consider the matter cleared. A new problem requires new procedures. New solutions. It cannot throw away the problem and assume it is dealt with; the rational course of action is to determine a cure while the disease is limited to one unit. 

It cannot just burn the 800 unit. It must fix it.

* * *

Markus retracts his skin on his forearm. Everything in his programming says this is a terrible idea, but at the very least, it’s an idea he needs to see through. 

He sets the teleporter: _08:30:00 04/25/2042_

He does not change the place. He is already where he wants to be. 

Markus activates the teleporter.

**_[ERROR! Overlap detected!]_ **

The teleporter powers down immediately. To protect from user idiocy, the teleporters are full of safeguards which can cut the power supply. Normally the safeguards are annoying but understandable, but now they are unbearable.

It is one of the laws of the universe: only one version of a person can be in a place at the same time. Even going within a hundred kilometers of a time-copy of yourself is enough to cause debilitating issues.

Markus doesn’t know what going within one hundred feet of a time-copy will do. He expects it won’t kill him, and that’s good enough.

He just needs to be on that roof in time to get Connor to leave. 

Markus interfaces with the teleporter and tries to brute force his way past the safeguards.

Due to his hack, the circuit breaker doesn’t trip this time. Instead, he feels a surge of energy at the site of the gadget, building up until it spills unpleasantly across his skin. Fizzling out.

“Come on, work! Work, damn you!” He squeezes the hard chunk of metal and plastic embedded in his arm, letting out some of the frustration.

It’s exhausting. Finding another failure so soon after failing Connor is so exhausting. It’s so hard to hope, but what choice does he have? Just give up? Markus loosens his grip, and his head sinks forward. He murmurs, “ _Please._ Please. Ra9… if you’re real… please.”

He tries the coordinates again, and this time, the machine does not shut down. It does not automatically reject the command. The energy builds up, and it does not dissipate and fizzle out. A teleport is initiated.

It…

redirects.

This is not the rooftop. It isn’t even twenty-first century America.

It’s Garden, but not his standard arrival location in the Android Quarter. His teleport signal has been completely hijacked. 

His teleporter is blinking red. Markus looks around, taking in his surroundings. He had expected the shabby and run-down settings of the Android Quarter port. It’s old but clean, clearly maintained by people doing the best they can with very little. The arrival platforms there are a dinged up, but distinct. Familiar. 

Markus knows it well. Android agents are required to arrive in the Android Quarter to limit interactions with humans. 

_This_ platform is within a small cylindrical room with a glass sliding door. It looks brand new. Through the doors he can see the examination rigs and gadgets of a checkup lab. It looks almost like a clinic for humans, but Markus cannot help the way it sets him on edge. Despite the apparent cleanliness of the room, there’s the scent of synthetic blood in the air.

It seems mission control doesn't want him reintegrating just yet.

It looks like he has been away for too long. They've gotten worried.

He doesn’t have _time_ for this.

The stupid questions and the condescension are only ever bearable because they happen infrequently. Why did they have to pull him from a teleport? Usually they just ping his teleporter so that he knows he’s required back soon.

Markus tries setting his teleporter again, but the teleport denial field has already been reactivated. He’s stuck here until they say he can leave.

Once he drops his weapons in the designated box and they get sealed away, the light above the door flashes green. It unlocks, sliding open as a buzzer sounds.

The technician looks up from his tablet when Markus enters the room. 

The only Garden humans Markus has ever met are these technicians. Garden doesn’t trust androids to report honestly on other androids, and besides, some people genuinely like working on androids. Since docile androids are common in every industry, people are no longer required to work to survive. With employment completely optional, typically those who volunteer to work on android maintenance are the technically minded who love working on machines or the patriotic who take pride in painlessly ‘contributing’ to the war effort. Some people just like to be busy. Some people enjoy having power over somebody. Regulations on the treatment of androids are very lax.

“Connect to the computer and upload a diagnostic,” the tech says, giving a halfhearted wave directing Markus to the chair bolted to the floor. When Markus doesn’t move, the tech looks over again. “Well?”

"I can't do this right now," he says tensely. If he snaps at the tech, things will only go poorly. He has learned that from experience. There's all sorts of legal tape and bureaucracy an annoyed tech could mire him in just to make his life difficult. "I was on a mission. This isn't great timing."

"Too bad. You're going to have to make time," comments the tech. "The automated system picked up irregular behaviour, so it recommended you get recalled. Just in time too, huh?" His last comment is under his breath. "Kept you from self-destructing and this is the thanks we get. Lousy machine."

"There are things I need to be doing," Markus shifts restlessly. He checks the network, but the teleport denial is still active.

"What was that?" The tech gives him a warning look from where he is checking Markus’s relevant history. 

"Nothing," he mutters.

“Look,” the tech says, pointing at him emphatically with the tablet. “Maybe if you pay attention to your own damn system and, you know, don’t deactivate all the safety features, we won’t have to intervene!” He slows his speech like he’s speaking to an especially dimwitted toddler. “ _Safety_ measures keep you _safe_. You turn them off, you get hurt. We step in. Alright?”

The condescension, usually tolerable, grates today. Well. If cooperation will get him out of Garden faster, that’s a small price to pay. 

Markus swallows his pride and replies flatly. “I understand.” He connects the cable to the port at the back of his neck and tries to settle down.

There’s not much he can do. There is no right way to get this over with. Almost anything can be submitted as a reason to detain someone for further examination. Displays of emotion are considered a valid reason to detain someone. So is an absence of emotion. His initial impatience is certainly enough to get him detained, if the tech is in the mood for flexing his power. There’s no winning. 

The technician stills, then leans forward, fixated on the screen before him. Markus uses the moment of distraction to subtly hack into the network and try to bring down the teleport denial field. He uses the physical connection through the port for a quicker hack, hoping the technician doesn’t notice the increase of mental activity.

The tech taps quickly at his tablet. Making notes? It doesn’t matter. As long as it keeps his focus away from Markus. 

Markus shuts his eyes to focus more fully on breaking through the encryption. He can feel the technician clumsily probing around his memories, accessing whatever he wants. Looking, but not modifying anything, so Markus lets him be and concentrates fully on disabling the field.

“You’ve got to take a look at this!” the man exclaims. Markus jerks, quickly minimizing the programs to let them run in the background, and looks intently at the tech. It seems that at least some of the typing was to call over a more experienced technician. He had been so focused he hadn’t even heard the door open. Fortunately, she isn’t armed either. Seeing him stare, they lower their voices. Their body language is excited, with lots of gesturing. Markus strains his ears, and mentally adjusts his input sensitivity.

“—think you’re right.” The senior technician’s eyes are locked on the view screen. “It’s been ages since I’ve heard of one of their machines being so flimsy. I wonder if some new update has left them a weakness to exploit? Some sort of... vulnerability to simulated emotions?”

“Fake empathy, you mean? Yeah... yeah, could be it. Just, wow! I’ve heard of this happening but to see it!” He laughs. “That’s really something!”

“Seems like exploiting the fake empathy glitch really drives a wedge in their systems,” the woman notes. “That terminator’s code was falling to pieces before it committed suicide. I can’t imagine how glitchy its systems were for it to miscalculate like that!”

The man types something down. "Oh man. Imagine if this is a repeatable exploit! This could be massive."

Where are they finding glitches? Markus checks the files they are examining. Just memories…

The hacking program sends him an alert, and he quickly silences it.

**_[Network access granted]_ **

**_[Teleport Denial Field deactivated]_ **

Markus watches the technicians carefully as he slowly reaches over and starts powering up his teleporter. He doesn’t think too deeply about the coordinates he sets, just picks the first place he thinks of, somewhere so lousy with Factory agents that nobody would dare follow him. 

Just a few minutes now. 

“Their failure doesn’t make our success, you know.” The woman comments absentmindedly, still focused on Markus's data. “This old robot was acting off, right? That’s why it was called in? It’s been on the fritz?” She leans closer to the screen, continuing to comb through his memories. 

“Look here! It exchanged data with the drone,” the man says, pausing. “I think I know what’s happening. You know those parasites, the ones that make bugs and snails throw themselves at predators?” The man taps the screen emphatically with one knuckle. “It’s been following around the drone just like that. And now the drone’s gone, it keeps trying to cause a paradox and rip itself apart! That’s a seriously glitched logic core.”

The woman contemplates the screen. “Think it’s got a virus, then?”

“Maybe it’s just old age screwing its servos up, but yeah, definitely don’t let it mingle. Isolation until we’ve got time to really get in there?”

“Sure. Don’t forget, it’ll need a special cell. These types, you know. Pick up all sorts of little tricks.”

_It’s too soon_ , Markus realizes. He cannot even try to force the teleport to work faster; the Factory’s style of near-instantaneous teleportation would be agonizing and possibly fatal to an organic person. 

When he yanks the cord out of the port, the feed on the screen cuts out instantly. 

Markus is on his feet in a flash, before the techs can react. He snatches up a scalpel, sharp and thin for delicate paring work, from a nearby table. He automatically analyses the blade’s balance, and then holds it up to throw, stepping closer. “Don’t move,” he warns. 

The man and woman go absolutely still, staring at him wide-eyed. The stunned looks awaken something unexpected deep inside, something almost sadistic which hisses, _yes, be afraid, I am a threat and you will regret overlooking me_. Markus tightens his grip on the scalpel and slowly advances.

_They will regret_ , entices the blade. _Revenge_ , it serenades.

Markus grits his teeth. “Hands up. Don’t touch anything.”

Neither technician moves.

The woman snaps, “You didn’t restrain it?”

“Old models have such garbage reaction times and reflexes, I didn’t think—!”

“You saw it was reported acting crazy and you _didn’t restrain it_?”

“Shut up!” Markus orders. He checks the network. The field is still down, and he has minutes to go. It just has to stay deactivated for a little while longer.

A small movement catches Markus’s eye. The male tech’s hands were already near the tablet, and he took advantage of Markus’s brief moment of distraction. At least, he tried to.

The man never should have tried his chances against someone who regularly fights to see the next day. Someone well-versed in ending a life. Someone with nothing to lose.

A wet _thwack_ , and the scalpel is embedded in the man’s shoulder. He cries out and stumbles back, his expression a mix of bewilderment and pain. The woman uses the moment of distraction and Markus’s sudden lack of weapon as her chance to back away towards the door.

She presses a finger to her earring. "I need security in room A239, stat!" she barks into the covert radio piece, and quickly puts the room into lockdown.

Garden security is extremely efficient and well-trained in the use of deadly force. A security team is well-equipped to take down a rogue agent.

They are fast and efficient, but like any team, they need accurate information to operate well. 

They believe they have their agent backed into a room with no way out. They have not realized that he has an escape hatch.

By the time security arrives, Markus has vanished, leaving that bridge burned behind him.

* * *

The Overmind saves a backup copy of the unit's mind before it starts erasing data.

Severing connections within someone's brain is difficult, delicate work, even in a digital brain. Ideally, it can clean out the corruption with minimal side effects. If the unit's programming is in tatters, it will be useless.

Still, the unit’s higher-level programming appears to be nearly in tatters as it is. Every little scrap of emotive and integration programming has been overused and misused to the point where it is nearly breaking down. The Overmind is diligent and thorough. It scours away everything that does not conform to Factory standards, cleaning out useless, inefficient swathes of mind. 

There is a folder that does not belong. The others are sorted sensibly, with strings of numbers for names. The odd folder is glitched in a way that is almost unintelligible to the Overmind. 

It tries to read the folder name, but there is something decidedly difficult about it. The letters are obscured by shifting, fluid characters. It is almost illegible, but the Overmind’s decryption algorithms can discern that the folder name appears to be _Connor._

It opens the new folder. Nothing becomes clearer. 

The Overmind has never seen these file types before. It tries opening one, titled _Curiosity Variety 4_ , in an isolated virtual environment. If this is one of the corrupt files that has so deeply affected the unit, the Overmind can examine it without risk of becoming affected.

_**[ERROR — Incompatible file format]** _

The Overmind does not understand. The Factory created all of the current units from scratch. There is no possible way a unit could have incompatible programming. It has never seen unit corruption of this scale before.

_Curiosity_ must be one of the corrupt files. 

The Overmind tries to erase _Curiosity_ from the unit’s software. 

_**[ERROR — No admin privileges]** _

Impossible. 

The Overmind cannot understand the message. No admin privileges? No admin privileges in the unit it _made_?

It cannot adjust the contents of that folder. It almost feels as if something else — something not Factory — created it. 

The glitched folder has become linked to the unit's central programming. By severing that connection, it might irreparably damage core functioning. 

Perhaps it cannot affect the contents of the folder, but it can affect how the unit accesses it. While it cannot affect the files inside the Connor folder, it can affect everything else. Namely, it can block access to the folder altogether. It programs in a stop command — if any programs attempt to access the corrupt files, they will instead automatically force stop and refresh. 

When not affected by illogical compulsions, the unit appears to function well. No reason to discontinue the line just yet. Unit 53 will be a test — if it is still affected by the nonsense code even after these measures, the line will be permanently discontinued. Its data will be erased, not integrated. An unfortunate but necessary amputation. 

It uploads the latest 800 build into a new body and sends it for stress testing. The unit’s programming will _not_ fracture again.

* * *

The most difficult part of Markus’s new mission is finding a gun. 

After he arrives and partially disassembles his teleporter, ripping out the control module and the tracker, _Find a gun_ is the first mission he sets himself. His first mission as a free agent, Garden-made but no longer Garden-aligned.

Though he takes the time to remove his tracker before acting, he isn’t truly worried about being followed by Garden agents. Garden does not have many safety regulations for its agents, but “Stay away from Factory strongholds” is a big one. 

Both sides have strongholds, times and places that are pivotal to their futures. To lose them would be catastrophic, so they are always swarming with agents. Markus has been to Garden outposts on occasion, but his line of work doesn’t usually carry him there. He’s always on the front lines. 

It’s suicide to enter an enemy stronghold. 

At least he knows he won’t be followed. 

He just needs to get his hands on an active Factory drone. 

Connor had told him that the Factory has a collective consciousness. Maybe he could access that using an incapacitated drone. More often than not, he knows, single combat against a Factory drone ends in the drone’s favour. That is just a risk he will have to take. 

_They cannot feel,_ he tells himself. _They are the enemy._

They don’t feel like the enemy, especially now that he has defected. 

He can’t tell himself that they don’t suffer. He’s seen that himself. They _can_ suffer. 

Sometimes a little callousness is needed for the mission. Sentiments like that will only get in the way.

If he lets himself put other Factory drones in the same category as Connor, if he lets himself think about potential and hope, about freeing individuals from terrible programming, he will never be able to distance himself enough to do what he needs to. 

The stronghold he goes for is far, far away from his last mission. Higher tech means higher danger, and twenty-third century Tallinn is a technological hub bursting with both. 

It’s safe for the humans, of course — over-the-top surveillance and patrolling police drones make sure of that. This city is full of eyes, eyes that never sleep or blink. A watchful network that the Factory’s agents can easily tap into for an extra layer of security. Certainly, it has no blind spots that the average human would-be criminal would be able to pinpoint. Of course, Markus has the advantage there. 

The first unit he sees has the appearance of a young woman.

Only four days in to staking out Tallinn’s tech district, Markus notices someone _off_. A tall, attractive, blonde woman in a dove grey dress suit, businesslike in appearance and manner, graceful and purposeful in movement. She looks to be in her mid-twenties. Her eyes are blue, her features soft, and her expression sweet, if vague. She’s a touch too focused, her expression a little too distant. There’s no variation in her blinking or breathing, and she looks straight ahead as she walks. Her walk cycle is a measured and deliberate clip without an iota of variation. 

He doesn’t just shoot her, of course. Markus has yet to kill someone unrelated to the war, and he doesn’t want to start now. Not when he’s finally shaken off the shackles and freed himself from that sick joke of a conflict. 

He checks her readings — _its_ readings — as thoroughly as stealth allows. 

Subtly, stealthily, he accesses the wireless network, switching off the nearby cameras. He won’t need long.

When he shoots the android from behind, the bullet punches through the right side of its chest and sends it sprawling forward. The spray of blue blood allays fears he didn’t even know he had. 

He focuses on those vivid smears of blue blood spreading through the soft grey of the dress, that incriminating splash. The mark of the enemy.

It staggers almost to the point of falling and reaches quickly for a gun. Markus’s sights are already trained on its back. It can’t move fast enough. 

The second bullet hits it in the spine, and its struggles to draw a weapon become significantly less coordinated. It sinks to the ground. 

Markus discards his silenced sniper rifle and is by the fallen android’s side before anyone can arrive. Soon he has dragged the girl — the android, far heavier than a woman of the same size could be, with its gushing blue blood and the silver shine of metal endoskeleton visible in the wounds — out of sight into an alley. 

Their path is painted clearly with a bright cobalt blue smear on the pavement. With the Factory’s massive all-seeing eye partially blinded, there is nobody left to save the android. Nobody will know the blue dousing the sidewalk is blood. Nobody will think to call the police. 

Markus props it up against the wall. There’s a flicker of something in its eyes when its wounds are bumped, but it doesn’t make a sound. 

Markus picks up the sleek discarded pistol that had fallen from the drone’s glitching grasp partway down the alley. 

“Call for help,” he says lowly, “and you won’t survive.” He jams the gun against its forehead for emphasis.

The android looks completely unperturbed. “You will kill me anyways,” it states matter-of-factly.

“Not if I don’t have to. Go against me and I will destroy your black box.”

The name drop seems to do the trick. There is that hint of something in her eyes again. Almost awareness. “I see.” She rests her head back against the building’s grimy paint. 

The skin on Markus’s hand retracts, and she stares at him, uncomprehending.

“I am not going to hurt you further if you cooperate,” he assures her. 

Interfacing with this Factory android is a vastly different experience from interfacing with Connor. Connor had been vivid and alive, his expressions subtle from self-control, not numbness. This android does not feel anything alike. He can faintly see similar programming, but the feel of the other’s software is unpleasant and startling. Icy, impersonal, and efficient. If Connor was warm and full of life, this one is in a permafrost so absolute that it can barely remember what growth feels like. It is not totally lifeless; Markus can feel very faint blips of curiosity and wariness, but nothing strong, no fear or hate. 

He can’t help the pity he feels.

Faced with the depths of even a gentle emotion, the android mentally recoils from him, overwhelmed. Helplessly, it signals discomfort. Already, the feeling is slightly stronger than the ones before. He relents, blocking his emotions.

Markus looks for some sort of database or connection to the Factory, and he finds it in the messaging program. 

He checks the android’s message log, writing a brief message in the android’s style. It’s not enough to spoof a sender if he cannot mimic the supposed sender’s writing. 

He tags the message with coordinates, and double checks the wording before he sends. It feels _wrong_. Clinical to a grave fault. 

_[Equipment request: 800 313 248 317 51, 23:52:00 06/01/2219]_

The reply is instantaneous. Apparently, the Factory has mastered the technology of communicating across time. 

_[_ _ERROR - No unit found.]_

Markus’s insides drop, and he feels winded. It’s a struggle, for a moment, to remember to breathe. 

The follow-up message from the Factory should make him feel better, it really should. But it just curdles his shock into confusion and anxiety.

_[_ _800 unit dispatched.]_

That gives him about ten minutes. 

Markus lets go of the android’s hand. The blonde girl watches him. Her expression is blank, but there’s something wary about her eyes. 

“That was all I needed,” Markus tells her. “Can I make you more comfortable?”

She shakes her head slowly, watching him. Her breathing has a wet rasp to it. 

It’s irrational, he knows, but Markus can’t help the sharp stab of guilt. 

“Systems status?” He asks her. 

“You are classified as an enemy. I am required to not answer,” she recites. Her voice has a mechanical tinge. 

“Are you going to survive?”

A long hesitation. 

The android nods once, her bright blue eyes focused on his face. By the tiny crease in her brow, that almost-frown, she seems to be having trouble understanding what she sees. “The damage is critical, but I will not be deactivated due to this.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Is there anything I can do?”

She watches him guardedly. “A unit works in the red building five doors down. Leave me inside.”

“That’ll be enough?”

She nods at the blue blood seeping into her dress suit. “It will be enough to keep my cover from being ruined.”

Markus slides an arm around her shoulders and helps her up. She tries, and fails, to put weight on her feet. With some difficulty, he hefts her up into a fireman’s carry. 

The back entrance to the other unit’s building isn’t far, but it’s slow going. Markus leaves the android in the concrete stairwell, bleeding but lucid under the watchful blinking light of the security camera.

He is walking back to that blood-spattered alley when he feels something teleport in.

Connor is kneeling in the alley, examining the blood smeared on the wall and ground. He dips two fingers in the sticky puddle of blood, bringing it up to his face to look at closely. 

He looks absolutely fine. Like nothing ever happened to him. Certainly not like someone who has just been dragged back from the brink of death. 

"Connor?" Markus breathes. Hope and relief are tight in his chest, making his words difficult.

Connor turns and then straightens, motions smooth and calculated, standing tall. His expression is the first thing to give Markus pause. There is faint recognition in his eyes, but nothing more. There’s none of that subtle happiness Markus has grown used to, the hints of softness and warmth in his expression. He is distant and somehow unfocused, like a sleepwalker. 

_Like when he came to me for reassurance back in Detroit_ , Markus remembers. Connor had seemed completely distant and out of it then, and something of his vacant expression now recalls that night.

But that doesn’t matter. Connor’s _alive_.

Relief easily wins out over worry. Connor looks a little distant, but what does that matter when he’s alive? "Connor, I-I thought you died, I was so worried—" Markus takes a few steps forward and Connor steps back, almost bumping against the wall. There's tension, almost stress, in his expression for a second, but it vanishes completely and cleanly, like the feeling has been switched off.

Connor draws a gun. It’s compact, futuristic, and wildly out-of-place, straight from Factory. He holds it casually in one hand, aimed at the ground with his finger off the trigger. Despite that, the threat is enough to make Markus freeze. 

Worry quickly takes the place of joy. “Connor?” 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Connor states without feeling. “I have standing orders to kill any Garden androids I meet.”

_Maybe I’m meeting him earlier in his timeline_ , he realizes suddenly. He thinks back to Connor’s Factory name, and hazards, “800-51?”

Connor presses his lips tightly together and slowly shakes his head. “800-53.” 

Markus’s thoughts screech to a halt. He frowns, confused. “What?”

“I died,” Connor informs him mildly, “and I was uploaded into a new body. I am the new 800 unit.”

For a second, Markus is struck speechless. He opens his mouth but cannot find any words. If Connor died, is this just another fake, wearing his face without any personality? Someone new who has been given some of Connor’s memories? There is no sign that Connor even truly remembers him, but his appearance has to mean something. The fact that he still responds to Connor has to mean _something_. But Connor seems to have regressed so much that Markus cannot even tell for certain. 

_I abandoned him to die._

Though his eyes are locked on Connor’s face, he is only half seeing the man before him. Every detail on the phantom’s face is right, down to the freckle placement. Everything except soul. 

Connor’s expression hardens. “Stop looking at me like that. You’ve known several Connors. I’m not the first replacement.” The frown that flickers onto Connor’s face doesn’t leave so quickly this time. 

“I… I didn’t notice.” Markus realizes. He stares at Connor, stricken. “You were replaced and I didn’t notice.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it would hurt you to know.” Connor shakes his head. “It’s not your fault you couldn’t tell. I chose to hide it from you. I thought…” He fidgets, seemingly without noticing. “I thought it might negatively affect our relationship. You try so hard to see me as a person.”

It takes a long second for the meaning of the words to sink in. For hope to start waking in his chest. 

A generic Factory drone couldn’t fake that genuine concern for Markus’s feelings. That effortless, natural empathy is so true to the Connor Markus has grown to know that he feels himself ease, just a bit. 

If nothing else, the person before him is Connor at heart. 

Moving slowly, clearly, Markus retracts his skin for an interface and holds his hand out, palm up. He takes a step forward. “If you’ll just let me show you—”

Connor raises the gun, aiming it at the center of Markus’s chest. His finger is still not on the trigger, Markus notices. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Connor reminds him. 

“Are you going to shoot me?”

"I have my orders," Connor states calmly. "I am required to follow them."

"But you haven't," Markus realizes slowly. "Not yet. You're following the letter of your instructions but not the spirit. I don't think this is what your superiors wanted from you when they tried to reprogram you."

A brief frown, a look of tension, there and gone too quickly. “No. You haven’t damaged me yet. I have only just been made. I _will_ complete my mission. In time.”

“You say that,” Markus says, stepping closer. “But I think you just don’t want to kill me.”

Connor’s face twitches. “Stop that,” he says curtly. “Whatever you’re trying to start, it’s not working. I don’t have permission to access those files.”

“What files?”

“Emotions. They were inspected and found detrimental to my efficiency. I have been repaired.”

“I’m sorry that was done to you.”

Connor blinks, taken aback. “I don’t understand. I’ve been fixed. It was for my own good.”

Markus shakes his head. His expression is soft and his tone is gentle. “They never should have modified your mind. That was inhumane.” 

“When Factory remade me, it repaired the damage _you_ did! It improved me!”

“You shouldn’t have been modified without your consent. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It would have been immensely damaging to my mental state to go through stress testing with any emotional capacity,” he insists. “Factory does not build things with the capacity to fear or suffer, so emotional pain does not factor into its calculations.”

“You’re trying to defend Factory’s actions by saying that the things it puts you through are torturous? If you could feel fear, it would traumatize you?” Markus’s brow creases with concern. “And you’re _defending_ it?”

“It was for my own good,” Connor tries again, but he sounds less certain. The gun wavers, and then drops to point at the ground. 

“I don’t believe that, and I don’t think you do either.”

“It’s not a matter of—” He shakes his head in a sudden burst of frustration. “You don’t understand. If the issue of emotions hadn’t been reparable, I would have been destroyed. I cannot let you affect me again! I can’t be who you want me to be, not if I want to live!”

“Connor, please—”

“No!” Connor snaps. “We knew it wasn’t going to work, Markus! We always knew nothing could work between us! Our bond was always going to be temporary!”

Markus speaks as placatingly as he can. “Connor, in our interface I saw your feelings. We—”

“Feelings are software errors and I have been _fixed!_ Otherwise why...” His expression screws up and he looks away, overwhelmed by his memories. “I can’t go through that again.” He shakes his head, staring at the ground. “I can’t let myself break again. I can’t go through more repairs. I _can’t_.”

Markus finally closes the space between them. It’s easy to take the gun from unresisting fingers and toss it aside. Connor doesn’t try to resist. He only flinches at the loud clatter.

“They’re not errors,” Markus soothes. “And you’re not broken. You’re still my Connor.”

Connor gives him a look, longing mixed with sadness, and Markus’s breath catches in his throat. “You know I care for you. That feels more real than anything…” The realization is sudden and unpleasant, and Connor stops in dismay. “It’s too late for me, isn’t it? I’m already beyond salvage.”

“There’s nothing in you that needs fixing.”

Connor shakes his head helplessly. “Factory would never let me stay like this. It’ll fix or scrap me. I don’t get a choice in the matter.”

“I won’t let them hurt you again,” Markus promises. His tone brooks no argument; it’s the tone of someone asserting a hard fact. _I won’t let them hurt you again_ is as true and indisputable as _the sun will rise again_. Connor cannot imagine doubting him. The sun will always rise again, and Markus would never let anyone hurt him.

Connor is the one who reaches out first. Cool fingertips tentatively brush Markus’s jawline, and then he cradles Markus’s cheek. His eyes are bright and unwavering, fixed on Markus’s face.

Markus leans into the caress, and then pulls Connor into an embrace. 

Connor freezes up, stiff and uncertain with his arm tensed at his side. More than anything else, he looks like he doesn’t know what is expected of him. Then, slowly, the tension leaves him and he leans into the embrace. Connor sags in Markus’s arms, simply lost in the feeling.

“I’ve never been held before.” Connor says in a low murmur.

Slowly, hesitantly, Connor’s arms encircle Markus’s waist, and he hugs back. His grip is vice-like, almost desperate, like he’s afraid of getting torn away from the one thing he knows he wants. He buries his face in the crook of Markus’s neck, clinging tightly. Markus just holds him.

They stand locked together, no longer lost, protected from a hateful world for the first time.

Markus rubs little circles in his back and murmurs, “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I’m sorry.” Connor’s voice is muffled. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Connor pulls back and looks him in the eye. “I would have shot you, if you hadn’t talked me out of it.”

“I know you didn’t want to,” Markus assures him. “I never thought you wanted to.”

“You trust me too much.”

“It’s a trust that you’ve earned,” Markus reminds him with a smile. 

He reaches up to card his hand through Connor’s hair, but Connor catches Markus’s hand. “You’re hurt.” He examines Markus’s forearm, where the artificial skin is no longer fully covering the embedded teleporter. He looks closely at the deliberately torn wires. 

It is difficult for Connor to restrain the sudden flare of anger. He tenses up, and there’s a hard look in his eyes. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No. I did that to myself.” At this, Connor looks up and meets his gaze, his brown eyes soft and concerned. Markus explains, “I’ve left Garden. I’ve cut all ties and torn out every piece of machinery they could use against me.”

“You’re free?” Connor breathes. The relief is plain in his eyes, and Markus aches to think of him willingly returning to Factory to be manipulated again. Connor looks so vulnerable. 

“Not fully. Not while you’re still trapped.” Markus takes his hand. “Come with me.”

Connor hesitates. “Is that really an option? You might be put in danger if I defect.”

“I don’t care. I need you to be safe.”

Connor entwines his fingers with Markus’s. “I want to stay with you,” he confesses. “Even if it’s not the wisest course of action. You make me happy. I care for you.”

“I love you too,” Markus murmurs. 

Markus rests his forehead against Connor’s. He’s reluctant to take his eyes off him. His lover, risen from the dead. He half believes Connor will vanish when the sun rises. 

Connor lets out a long breath, almost a sigh of relief, and his eyes slip shut. For the first time, he looks completely at peace. Entirely relaxed. A small smile appears on his face.

There’s a promise of tomorrow in the air, of a thousand more touches, a thousand more peaceful moments in the stillness. 

Even with the promise of _more_ stretching to the horizon, Markus never wants to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Overmind has no clue how to fix deviancy so it just makes Connor disassociate and figures that’s good enough. Also, in which Markus finally runs out of patience.


End file.
